


Torn Stitches

by AggressiveWhenStartled



Series: Arguing and Corpses [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Absolutely no dubcon, Also murders, BAMF!John, Clearly and explicitly consensual rough sex, Explicit Consent, John Watson admits when he's wrong, John Watson's magical wang doesn't solve problems, M/M, Safer Sex, Sherlock Holmes doesn't need saving, Stalking, Working through issues like adults, discussion of abuse, talking does
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-22 07:43:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AggressiveWhenStartled/pseuds/AggressiveWhenStartled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The trick to being with Sherlock Holmes, John mused, was to always keep in mind that he wouldn’t <i>actually</i> murder you and wear your skin as a suit. </p><p>“I can see the appeal,” Sherlock was murmuring to him over the peeled body, much to the horror of any yarders in earshot. “I often find it surprisingly difficult to get inside your head. It might be cathartic to do in a more literal sense.”</p><p>John snorted. “With your curls? Our killer didn’t even clean this poor bugger out properly, just pulled him on gore and all. You’d be picking bits of me out of your hair for weeks afterwards.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you will all be pleased to note that I took your requests and Victor will be in this sequel. You're welcome. :D
> 
> A huge THANK YOU to [AislinCade](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AislinCade/pseuds/AislinCade) for betaing an earlier version of this chapter (all new typos are entirely mine), for unrelenting aid in coming up with titles and tags, and for letting me natter about plot ideas for an entire day, then starting up again at 7 in the morning.
> 
> I update on weekends by Sunday evening American time, btw, and I'm almost always a little early.

The trick to being with Sherlock Holmes, John mused, was to always keep in mind that he wouldn’t _actually_ murder you and wear your skin as a suit. 

“I can see the appeal,” Sherlock was murmuring to him over the peeled body, much to the horror of any Yarders in earshot. “I often find it surprisingly difficult to get inside your head. It might be cathartic to do in a more literal sense.”

They were crouched over the latest victim in an abandoned basement, the corpse’s exposed muscle going stiff and translucent in the dry air. The Yard was hoping to find the rest of the man nearby and, according to terrified witnesses who had seen the murderer traipsing around in it earlier, entirely in one piece. Of all things.

John snorted. “With your curls? Our killer didn’t even clean this poor bugger out properly, just pulled him on gore and all. You’d be picking bits of me out of your hair for weeks afterwards.”

“Yes, well, give me credit for obviously going about it a _bit_ more intelligently than this.” Sherlock examined the naked pads of the man’s fingers for a moment before he paused, grinning. “Of course,” he teased, “if I followed suit exactly, I’d always have a part of you with me. In my hair.”

John laughed. “You’re such a romantic. Hold up his arm for me, will you?”

Everyone gave them a wide berth.

They would forget again soon (people usually did; it was probably the jumpers), but in the weeks since John had shot a serial killer in the eye with an illegal handgun in front of Sally Donovan, all the half-hearted effort Sherlock had made to smooth things over with her (and, really, the rest of London’s police force) had been wasted. John tried not to feel too guilty, since he’d shot the woman while saving Sherlock’s life, but it did mean that his image as the sane, safe one was a bit damaged at the moment.

He probably wasn’t helping it laughing about being skinned by his boyfriend, of course.

On the upside, the current imagined threat of Sherlock going serial-killer with John as his gun-wielding sidekick was keeping almost everyone out of their way and exceptionally polite. No one wanted to be interesting enough or annoying enough to be the first victim when things went sour. Really though, they needn’t have worried; barring any truly amazing breaks of character from the residents of the Yard, Anderson would _clearly_ be at the head of the line if they snapped.

“So?” Greg asked, unable to keep quiet any longer. “Anything?”

Sherlock peeled back a section of muscle on the body’s shoulder, examining where the flaying knife cut slightly too deep. His eyes narrowed, he gave a slight, sudden inhale, and John glanced up to look at him. 

“Boring,” Sherlock declared, standing abruptly and stripping his gloves off in disgust. 

John stared. “What?” he blurted, torn between annoyed and disbelieving.

“What?” Greg echoed, clearly deciding on annoyed.

“Don’t force me to repeat myself,” Sherlock sighed, tossing the gloves in the bin and pulling on his own leather ones, which were hardly going to keep anything warm. John supposed they looked quite dashing, though, which was presumably their only function. Even now Sherlock was lifting his chin and tilting his head at just the right angle to project beautiful but disaffected ennui. Usually John found it amusing and, admittedly, attractive against his better judgment. But really, on _this_ murder?

“Boring?” he managed, “the killer skinned the man, pulled on his face, and _went to the bloody Tesco to buy crisps_. That is absolutely an eight at the _least_.”

“Boring!” Sherlock flipped his coat collar up. “Did you see the cut marks? The method of subduing the victim?” He looked back and forth between John and Greg, growing more agitated. “For god’s sake, look at the ropes!”

Greg turned to look at John instead, but he just shrugged helplessly in reply.

Sherlock stared at them and flung his hands in the air, making a frustrated noise. “It’s the same case as before, Sally simply can’t be trusted to clean everything up correctly!”

“Oi!” Sally yelled from across the room, “I can bloody hear you!”

“You missed a spot,” Sherlock snarled, pointing at the corpse, “right here. I am not tidying it away for you!”

“You don’t tidy your own flat, no surprise there,” Sally shot back. “What the hell have I done to disappoint you this time, Freak?”

“You have twelve indescribably inept, moronic members of a disbanded murder internship program currently kicking their heels in the machinery of your useless justice system,” Sherlock bit out, yanked his coat tighter around himself and flung the door open. John scrambled to follow. “Yet somehow you’ve failed to question them sufficiently to know whether you’ve managed to capture _all_ of them.”

Sally stuck her jaw out and slammed the door shut before Sherlock could leave. “I might have, if your _boyfriend_ hadn’t shot the only one who knew everything,” she accused, giving John a glare.

“Still not sorry,” John said cheerfully. Sally slit her eyes at him but didn’t say anything more.

“In any case,” Greg said quellingly, his hands up like he was dealing with a pack of rabid dogs, “knowing it’s another student doesn’t help us. Giving us some details about how to find him does. Sherlock? Impress us. Show off how brilliant you are and tell us where he’s hiding.”

Sherlock gave him a glare that clearly said he would not be manipulated, and he was frankly appalled at the weakness of the attempt. John knew Greg’s pain; he’d gotten that look already twice in as many hours. Apparently, cajoling your flatmate into eating dinner was considered controlling and dictatorial, and was Not To Be Borne.

“I’m getting the feeling that ‘boring’ means you don't know the answers,” Sally tossed out, and John could swear he saw Sherlock’s hackles rise. 

Apparently he _would_ be manipulated today.

“No salt. No chemicals,” he hissed, stalking back to the body to wave his hand over it wildly. “Not even the brain was used to stave off rot on the skin. The killer made no attempt to preserve it.” He gestured around the room; it was clear, open, and utterly without neighbors. “The scene gave him ample opportunity; that means he doesn’t intend to keep it. By the time he’d finished his childish trip to the shops, the smell would have set in, and he would be covered in gore. He’d want to get rid of it and clean up.” 

“It’s not that easy,” Greg insisted. “No one has seen anyone wandering around drenched in blood since your pig fiasco in the tube. People would have called.”

“We were getting phone calls about you dripping all over the train for the entire week afterwards,” Sally agreed.

Sherlock ignored them. “He’d need to clean off and dump the skin out of sight. Where? He can’t go to a public toilet, he can’t be sure he’ll avoid attention breaking in to any back rooms to use a shop’s, and anyway he’ll want a full shower, ideally, to get the…” he glanced at John, and smirked, “mementoes of the occasion out of his hair entirely. He went to Tesco’s for attention, but now the police are coming and he needs to move quickly.” He turned to them, triumphant. 

Then his face fell.

“Really?” he asked, incredulous at their presumably blank faces, “Good god, no wonder the paper’s crossword is a challenge, I’m surprised you don’t all need my help using the bathroom as well. Really? You can’t think of anywhere nearby that would sport a shower the killer would know about and could count on.”

Sally and Greg both looked at John again, which really never helped them, but they still assumed he could read Sherlock’s mind. Probably because Sherlock expected him to as well, most of the time. He just shook his head again.

“This building is _right next to one_ ,” Sherlock snapped, pointing, and looked ready to strangle them.

“Hold on.” Greg held a hand out to stop him, other arm still crossed over his chest. “You can’t honestly be trying to tell me the man wandered over to the motel next door and booked a room. Even if he’d done it before he was covered in blood, someone would have seen him dripping somewhere. It’s not a slow area.”

Sherlock looked, if possible, even more disgusted than before. “You don’t need to go in the front door to use the shower, Lestrade. You only need to have prepared the back window by unscrewing the bars, yank them the rest of the way off when you get there, and break in. Did you not even _notice_ the cement bits he dusted off his jacket over the body? Of course you didn’t. And, of course, most telling; he left his _receipt_ ,” he sneered, snatching a bit of paper out of the open rubbish bin in the corner.

“Wait,” Sally tried, “so—“

“Search the dumpsters and back windows of the motel on the receipt, find the skin with his DNA embedded in it, and catch him. If that fails, try questioning your witnesses again. You don’t need me for either of these.” He yanked the door open, dislodging a furious Sally, and stormed out.

“Good to see you, Greg, Sally,” John called back, and ducked out after him.

***

“That,” John told him later in the taxi, “was amazing.”

“That was _tedious_ ,” Sherlock corrected him petulantly. “I’m sick to _death_ of that whole idiotic group. The way the Yard has been looking at you sideways since we dealt with the woman in charge _grates on my nerves_. And the receipt wasn’t _cheating_ , it was _observing_ ; you should try it someday.”

John looked up, startled. Sherlock was hunched up into the far corner, glaring out of the window, refusing to even look at him. “What? Of course it wasn’t cheating. And don’t worry about me, Sherlock, it’s not a big deal. They’ll forget about it eventually.” He grinned. “They always do.”

Sherlock turned slightly and raised an eyebrow. “They’ve never been confronted with how dangerous you are quite so strongly, John. Even with the battered, weeping colanders they use for memory space, they’ll remember. Do try not to be more of a simpleton than you already are.”

“You’re in a mood,” John said serenely as they pulled up to 221B. “It doesn’t particularly matter anyway, does it? I think I can handle people looking at me funny.”

Sherlock scowled, climbed out and headed up the steps, stomping at every one. “You don’t think, clearly, so you shouldn’t pretend to.”

John gave him a mocking look and followed. “You mad bastard, you just finish telling me how much you hate the Yard thinking ill of me and then you start throwing names and insults. Are you going to tell me I’m the prettiest again then ask me to cover my face with a sack?”

Sherlock spun around at the door to glare at him. “I am not simply concerned with the public ‘thinking ill’ of you, John. If you take an instant to apply your atrophied concentration to consider anything beyond the present moment, you might realize what such ill-thinking means on a slightly larger scale.”

“I won’t be invited to the office Christmas do this year?” John suggested, unworried. “I’ll miss seeing Anderson get slapped when he gets drunk and starts using it as an excuse to get handsy, but I can’t really say it will be all that burdensome a sacrifice.”

“It _means_ ,” Sherlock gritted out, unlocking and shoving open their door, “that you are now fair game. That, while up until now you’ve been the kind, hapless doctor strung along whenever I did something poorly considered, now you will be an accomplice.”

“I hate to point this out, since I’m sure you’d have rather figured it out on your own,” John told him kindly, “but we’re partners. We filed the business paperwork and everything. And everyone who didn’t know for certain if we were also shagging or not is damn clear on it after that last noise complaint got called in.”

Sherlock looked momentarily distracted by the memory but soured quickly. “Yet again, you completely fail to grasp the point, John. You do recall how often I’m accused of murder, kidnapping, faking my livelihood?” He gestured vaguely. “Moriarty? The pink case? The murder ring we just wrapped up? Ring any bells?”

John gave him a look.

“You’ve been exempt, part of the ‘normal’ people I’ve duped. Pitiable, foolish, but innocent.” Sherlock leaned on the door heavily, looking ready to tear it off. “Now you’re dangerous, John. You’ll be guilty right along with me.”

John considered. It seemed plausible. More than plausible, really; it was ridiculous and, when he thought about it, vaguely insulting how he was constantly left out of the hail of accusations Sherlock received. Everyone just assumed that _of course_ he wouldn’t be in on it. “Alright. Well. Not having anyone to bail us out will be a more common thing, then,” he allowed.

Sherlock glared at him, spun back away with a huff, and stalked inside. 

“Look, Sherlock.” John walked in after him, taking care to close the door and hang his coat up; Sherlock’s was already thrown haphazardly over John’s chair. “It really doesn’t bother me. Hey,” he caught Sherlock’s arm, “it’ll be fine.”

“It will be fine,” Sherlock repeated, looking skeptical, “right. Of course. Being suspected of murder has never led to horrendously disastrous consequences before. Your sparkling Pollyanna nature, John, and your ability to ignore your own hypocrisy hugely impresses me. It’s really quite extraordinary.”

“Hold on, what?” John let go. “How am I being a hypocrite?”

“’We need to be more careful,’” Sherlock mimicked, and John’s mouth went dry. “The press will turn, Sherlock, they always turn, and they’ll turn on you.’”

“Now, wait, this isn’t the same—“

“And don’t forget directly after,” Sherlock continued, “you gave me that _look_ , the one that said I’d disappointed you by not understanding your _feelings_ when I couldn’t comprehend why you might be worried or upset about things that could only affected _me_.”

“Ah,” John managed.

Sherlock stalked away loudly, turned back and began to pace. “Don’t act as though I’m being an emotional, hysterical wreck. I’m not building fears out of nothing, I am reasonably worried about completely rational concerns.” He came to an angry halt and swept the entire mess he’d left on his chair that morning onto the floor with a loud crash before throwing himself bodily into it. 

Being Sherlock, of course, it didn’t tip over backwards with him in it like it would have for John.

Sherlock still wasn’t finished. “Don’t _patronize_ me, don’t tell me it will be _fine_ ,” he snarled, snatching up his violin from its case. John winced in anticipation. “I am _brilliant_. I am _exceptional_. When I say this will end badly, it means _this is going to end badly_.” With that, Sherlock put his bow to the strings and began sawing at it, making a sound like a cat screaming. Loudly.

John slumped into his own chair, ignoring the din and letting all his breath out in a huff. “You’re right,” he sighed. 

Sherlock stilled. 

“I should take it more seriously.” John admitted. “It’s probably going to bite me in the arse.”

“You still don’t sound particularly _concerned_ ” Sherlock noted frostily, still not looking at him. 

John shrugged. “I’m not, really. Let’s face it, Sherlock, we’re both happy and willing to be martyrs to protect the other. The main difference now? I’m lucky enough that you won’t have such an easy time of it. I’ll be in the same snake pit that you will.” 

Sherlock looked even _less_ pleased after that one, but he stopped attacking the violin (thank god) and buried himself in his computer instead. John watched him for a moment, but he didn’t seem interested in talking. 

John exhaled and levered himself up; he’d been fighting with Sherlock to eat when they had been called away on the case and he was famished. If they were done arguing, perhaps he could scrounge around their kitchen for something vaguely safe for human consumption. He pottered around the cupboards before opening the refrigerator and pulling out something that looked like a block of streaked pork. 

“This thing here,” he called out, eyeing it. “Human or animal?”

“Animal,” Sherlock replied absently, scrolling through what was presumably his email. “Pig.” John nodded, and pulled it out. Dinner, then. His luck seemed to be turning; it was rare you found something in the fridge that wasn’t an experiment. 

He paused.

“Edible or not edible?” John asked warily after a moment. 

“Definitely edible,” Sherlock told him. Then he looked thoughtful. “Provided you cook it first, of course. Thoroughly.”

Well. 

Well, that could mean several things. That could mean it was perfectly acceptable ham or bacon, and would be lovely fried up with eggs and/or toast. It could also mean, of course, that Sherlock had introduced a dangerous bacteria to it that was nonetheless susceptible to heat. Or, Sherlock may have done nothing to it at all, but had found it on a roadway somewhere. It could be any number of things that should, really, exclude it from John’s regular menu. 

No real way to tell, honestly.

“Please don’t make me play twenty questions with my dietary health, Sherlock,” John begged. “If I knew the full history of this piece of meat, would I want to eat it?”

“Likely not.” Sherlock glanced up over the laptop screen, then back down. “Few people do, considering modern industrial farming practices and supermarket handling mishaps. Ignorance of your food’s history didn’t bother you when you made those pork chops last night, though, so I can’t see why it would now.”

John was suddenly very concerned about last night’s pork chops. 

“Look,” he said finally, “you know the question I’m trying to ask you. Just answer that one.”

Sherlock looked back up and smiled. It should have been annoying, really; John mentally kicked himself when he started to go soppy instead. “No. I have not done anything to the bacon, aside from unwrapping it and placing it in the container.” He bent back to his work.

“Oh thank god.” John closed the refrigerator.

“Wait.” Sherlock popped his head back up. “Is that the blue container, or the white one?”

“Uh,” John said, “What?”

“Ah, the white one.” Sherlock looked back down again. “Then yes, it’s fine.”

John looked back at the bacon, troubled, then put it away. “I think I’ll have takeaway tonight, actually.” 

Sherlock didn’t reply.

“Sherlock?” John glanced over; Sherlock had narrowed his eyes at something on his computer, eyes scanning quickly through it. He might have gone a bit pale, but then, that could just be the light of the screen. “What is it?”

Sherlock’s head shot up and he snapped the lid closed. “Nothing.”

John stared at him in awe at the sheer enormity and blatancy of the lie, and Sherlock at least had the grace to squirm sheepishly. “I know I’m not as clever as you are, Sherlock, but I’m not _actually_ a _complete_ idiot. What was it?”

Sherlock’s upper lip curled up, disdainful, and his eyes dropped back to the closed laptop before they met John’s. “Not nothing,” he admitted, “but nothing new. It started out interesting, but recently I’m coming to realize it has been mediocre from the beginning.”

“Right,” John said, unconvinced. “Well, whatever that mediocre nothing is, does it mean we have a case on?”

“Definitely not.” Sherlock pursed his lips and glared at the computer.

“Then I am going to order some food, because I am at the end of my rope tonight, you’ve poisoned the refrigerator, I am going to eat _something_ , and it won’t be whatever you’ve left in the crisper.”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked up, and John rolled his eyes. “Oh,” Sherlock purred, leaning back in his chair, “I wouldn’t mind that.”

“I am going to eat some _food_ ,” John clarified virtuously. Sherlock gave an exaggerated sigh. 

“Oh, dull,” he decided. “But I suppose. If you must.”

“That way I’ll have energy later on to eat other things,” John told him primly, and Sherlock snorted. “Like your—“

“Crude,” Sherlock growled, standing, and pushed him down onto the sofa.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: It has been mentioned that the previous version of this chapter was confusing. I've added about a paragraph of extra prose near the beginning and fiddled a bit with John's line right before Sherlock yells at him, but they're not big changes-- no need to reread unless you want clarification. If you're still confused about what's going on, PLEASE let me know! It's a problem with my communication of the story, not with your understanding.

Two or three weeks later, after a poisoning, a mugging gone wrong, and three kidnappings (same victim each kidnapping; apparently he was _very_ rich and didn’t believe in changing his unrestricted, security-free lifestyle), Sherlock and John finally managed to get a full meal and go to bed without being interrupted by a frantic phone call, getting drenched in freezing rain in the dark, or having a roaring fight.

John woke up well rested for the first time in too long, blinking muzzily into the sunlight filtering through the late morning sky. It was amazing how much sleep you could get when you were warm, dry, and importantly, weren’t severely tempted to murder the man you were sleeping next to.

Sherlock had been positively feral for the past month. He had succeeded in pissing off pretty much everyone involved in every aspect of every investigation, even more than he usually did. When he wasn’t ready to strangle the man himself, John was grudgingly impressed; anyone able render an entire crime scene staff furiously impotent with rage and escape without so much as a harassment charge was doing _something_ right. Not much, of course, but something. 

If the Yard hadn’t still been terrified of the two of them, someone would definitely have come to blows with Sherlock by now. Hell, if he hadn’t been sleeping with Sherlock, _John_ might have come to blows with him by now. He tried to be sympathetic, since it didn’t take a deductive genius to tell something was clearly wrong. When Sherlock went viciously cruel on a dime, his entire demeanor changed; he put extra space between them, shied like a skittish horse when John came near, turned everything John said to him into an insult and seemed—nervous. Wary. Like John was a threat.

But he wouldn’t say anything about it. Sherlock pretended there was nothing wrong, then turned into the worst version of himself, and it was _exhausting_. To take a recent example, John found some of the ways Sherlock had called him a slag in the past charming; an extension of the ribbing they chucked back and forth most of the time they spent together. When Sherlock did it in the middle of a blind, hissing, jealous rage because John had complimented an officer during a case, once, about her _job_ , it was no longer amusing. 

They’d had an amazing row over that one. But last night…

Well.

John stretched, muscles sore, still covered knee to chest in oil.

Last night had gone _really well_.

Sherlock was, miraculously, still in bed; usually by this point he would have woken up and wandered off to break something or set loose something else. John was generally roused in 221B not by an alarm or sunlight, but by Sherlock bellowing that he needed John to come downstairs, _immediately_. Most recently, to help him catch all the flesh-eating beetles he’d spilled.

Oh, that morning had been memorable.

“Hey,” John breathed, nosing into Sherlock’s hair and pressing up experimentally against him. “Are you awake?”

Sherlock made a sleepy noise and pressed back, but didn’t open his eyes. John grinned and touched his mouth to Sherlock’s ear, brushing his fingertips slowly up along the slopes of his ribs and back down to his hip. 

Sherlock gave a soft sigh and turned, allowing more access. John smiled. “You faker,” he said fondly into his ear. “Don’t pretend you’re still sleeping. You never sleep later than I do.”

Sherlock snorted and turned his head, slitting his eyes at him, and John slid his hand along Sherlock’s abdomen and just slightly into the curls below. Sherlock groaned and arched lazily up. “I’m not generally an idler like you are,” he agreed, tilting his head back to rest against the crook of John’s neck.

John pulled slightly back and stared at him, stunned. “That is the most ridiculous lie I have ever heard come out of your mouth,” he told him, amazed. “That one’s better than the time you told Greg you hadn’t poisoned the victim’s goldfish, they were only sleeping. Do you remember why we’re in my bed rather than yours? Hmm?” He dragged his nails slowly up along Sherlock’s hipbone, and was rewarded with a breathy sigh.

“Going to the upstairs bedroom could hardly be called—“ here Sherlock drew a sharp breath as John’s hand came to brush, lightly, against his rapidly filling prick, “—slothful, John. An entire extra flight of stairs, really, it’s positively herculean.”

“We’re in my bed because you thought it would be a brilliant idea not to leave yours at all yesterday,” John reminded, palming him, “but of course didn’t want to leave off experimenting with the liquefied frogs for the case. We’re in my bed because you spilled jellied amphibian and hydrochloric acid across your expensive, Egyptian cotton sheets and left it all afternoon since I wasn’t home to clean it up for you.”

Sherlock was breathing hard, thrusting up into John’s hand. His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment.

“Supima,” he finally gasped.

“Hmm?”

“Supima cotton. Egyptian cotton’s staple is—oh—hugely inferior, although with your polyester blend percale I’m sure both—“ John cut Sherlock off with light teeth at his shoulder, and the insults trailed off to a low purr.

“No, no.” John smoothed his thumb over the head of Sherlock’s cock, making him buck. “Don’t let me stop you. Hearing you insult my sheets and wax romantic about cotton quality is amazingly arousing.”

Sherlock moaned wordlessly.

“This is nice,” John murmured, grinding easily against him. “I could get used to this. Don’t get me wrong, being buggered over the table is among my absolute favorite ways to spend an evening. Waking up still slick from oiled handjobs the night before, though… that’s certainly making its way up my list.”

“Water based lubricants do turn st-sticky and unpleasant overnight, yes.” Sherlock recovered enough of himself to say, nails dragging across John’s apparently sub-par sheets. “But it’s possible I used too much oil if we’re still covered in it now.”

“No such thing.” John slid his other hand smoothly down Sherlock’s thigh, trailing along the back of his knee and making him sigh. “Hey. I’d like to try something, if you’re okay with it.”

“Hm,” Sherlock managed, swallowing hard, arching up to gain more friction.

“How comfortable would you be,” John asked, tracing up Sherlock’s inner thigh, then teasing higher, “if I slid up between your legs here and—“

Sherlock went suddenly rigid. He jerked away and twisted around to give John a cold glare, snapping straight back to the wrathful, spitting fury he’d been turning into for the past month. “Try it,” he spat, “and you will regret it _immensely_.”

“Right,” John said with forced calm, slowly pressing his hands to the mattress where Sherlock could see them, safely away from him. His heart was thudding double time, and he took a deep breath. “Not comfortable at all. That’s fine. I won’t, then.”

“How _disappointing_ for you,” Sherlock hissed, hovering at the edge of the bed like an angry cat; tensed and ready to bolt or attack, and not sure yet which he wanted to do. “So much more difficult to accidentally stick me in the arse if I don’t give you the opportunity to get close enough, isn’t it?”

“You know I wouldn’t,” John told him, keeping his breathing steady. “You know I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.”

“Don’t _lie_ to me,” Sherlock yelled at him, enraged, “I’m not an idiot, I can _tell_ when you _lie to me_.” And with that, he snatched up his dressing gown and lit from the room, slamming the door behind him hard enough that several books fell in his wake.

John let his head drop back into the pillows, his breath coming out in one long huff, and clenched his eyes tightly shut.

“I don’t lie to you,” he muttered into the empty room. “I’m not the liar in this flat.” 

But no, that wasn’t fair. Sherlock didn’t have to let John in on whatever was wrong. John didn’t have a right to Sherlock’s private trauma just because he was sleeping with him. Christ, though—sharing a bed with Jekyll and Hyde was tearing him to _shreds_. He took another deep breath and pulled on his clothes, taking his time with every fold, every button. Giving Sherlock a chance to calm down. 

Giving _himself_ a chance to calm down. 

When he finally made his way downstairs, he hadn’t completely accomplished it. Still, he had a slightly tighter grip on his patience than before. Sherlock was slamming cupboards in the kitchen, clearly having no idea what to do next and dithering anxiously over it. He glared into the refrigerator before swinging the door hard into the frame, knocking it back several inches, then turned and fiddled aimlessly with the glassware he’d covered the kitchen table with. It was filled all with blue liquid, and sloshed dangerously when Sherlock was too abrupt with it.

John cleared his throat, not wanting to startle him. He did anyway; Sherlock whirled, spooked and skittish, before his expression turned icy and hard. “Fantastic,” he snarled, turning his back again, “I see you’ve decided to come down and look sadly at me now. Guilty lovers are so much easier to manage, aren’t they, John?” 

“You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, Sherlock,” John said softly, trying hard not to react, “but I can’t help you if you don’t.”

Sherlock looked at him over his shoulder, mouth curled in a look of disgust. “Oh,” he breathed, “oh do help me, John. Something _must_ be wrong with me if I’m angry with you. I just need you to show me what it is, yes? I just need you to _save_ me. To _fix_ me.”

“I’m not actually stupid, Sherlock,” John bit out, patience fraying already. “There’s _something_ going on. You don’t have to tell me what, but do me the decency of admitting it’s there.”

“Not stupid? Your idiocy,” Sherlock corrected him slowly, turning back to face him and drifting closer, “is visible from _space_. Does it comfort you, to think there must be something defective about me? That there must be something _broken_?” He stepped closer, leaning in. “Do I intimidate you, John?”

John swallowed, standing stock still. “No.”

“Do I _scare_ you?” Sherlock purred, not quite touching him.

John tilted his chin up. “No.”

“I’m brilliant,” Sherlock murmured, breath hot at his ear, “but not quite right am I? As long as I’m not quite right, you can always be superior. Always be confident. I’m such a sad, lonely little _machine_. So pitiful. So _confused_.” He backed up, and John let out the breath he was holding. 

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” John told him, refusing to get sucked into the fight.

“ _Don’t. Patronise me_!” Sherlock shouted, sweeping the stacked glassware off the tabletop and sending it crashing to the floor. It shattered, streaking the tile blue, but hopefully wasn’t anything too caustic or dangerous; neither of them was about to go clean it up now. “I am _brilliant_ , I’m a _genius_ , I am so intellectually superior that I can see _Mars_ from where I stand above you— I’m not a _child_!”

“ _Jesus_ , Sherlock,” John yelled back, dropping his head into his hands. “Quit attacking me—I’m not trying to patronize you. I’m trying to _talk_ to you, like adults in a goddamn relationship _do_.”

“Oh _yes_ ,” Sherlock sneered, and John grit his teeth. “Oh please, John. Tell me what adults in relationships do. I love it when you tell me how hilarious I am if I pretend to be one. It’s always wonderfully entertaining to wait for you to stop laughing at me long enough to explain to me how adorable it is.”

John’s patience finally snapped. “Sherlock, I laugh because you’re _ridiculous_!” he hollered. “Half the time you’re not even trying!“

“I’m ripping my _gut_ out _trying_ for you!” Sherlock roared, hands in his hair, and fell back to lean against the counter. He looked furious and miserable, and John tried to choke down the slow stew of anger that just kept building up recently.

“Look,” John said, reaching out to take Sherlock’s arm, “I only—”

“ _Don’t touch me_ ,” Sherlock shouted, panicked and angry, and snatched his arm back so suddenly he clipped John across the face with a loud _crack_.

There was a long silence. 

Sherlock stared at him in openmouthed horror before his face suddenly blanked, and John took a deep, long breath, then looked back up at him. 

“I know that was accidental,” John said softly. “But I can’t—I’m going out.”

“Wait, I—“ Sherlock swallowed, arms crossed tight on his chest and dismay on his face. “Don’t leave,” he said softly, and the ‘me’ at the end was obvious but unsaid. John scrubbed his hands over his eyes.

“I’m not. I promise I’m not. I just—“ his voice caught, and he tipped his head back. “I can’t be rational enough for this. I’ll be back. But I can’t stay here right now.”

Sherlock turned to stare at the shattered mess on the floor. John pressed his lips together in a tight line, pulled on his jacket, and left.

***

He made it three blocks before he collapsed on the kerb and dropped his head, his hands in his hair. It was still spiked with oil.

“Christ,” he muttered. “ _Shit_.”

Oh that had gone _perfectly_. John had really just been _brilliant_. He sighed, leaning against the streetlamp beside him. 

He _did_ patronize Sherlock. He _did_ laugh at him when he was trying his best. He didn’t have an excuse, really, unless he was going to complain that Sherlock was being a big meanie. 

Sherlock was selfish, a liar, and a manipulator. He made John see red on a weekly basis, even in the best of moods. He turned the flat into a biohazard on a whim, dragged John from every engagement he felt even vaguely threatened by, and none of it gave John the right to laugh when he was vulnerable.

Well done, rewarding his own boyfriend trying to navigate honest adult relationships by ridiculing his efforts. _Really_ stellar work there.

Something was wrong, but he didn’t have the right to make Sherlock acknowledge it. Sherlock was being a venomous _dick_ the past month, and John had every right to tell Sherlock how he expected to be treated, but had he? No. No, he’d let Sherlock wind him up into a bellowing idiot instead. 

And Sherlock wasn’t _really_ the venomous dick he was being now. Up until the spanner had flown into the works, he’d been trying. _Hard_. The man had actually walked away from chasing a serial killer last month because John had asked him to. He’d needed, very desperately, for John to do exactly what he’d said when it had all gone wrong, and he’d asked. _Asked_ , when John was always so much more likely to do what Sherlock wanted in a crisis if he’d been tricked into it.

John made a disgusted noise and hit his head against the lamppost. 

***

When John came home several hours later, dragging up the stairs and leaning heavily on the bannister, a cloud of cigarette smoke met him at the door. He coughed, waving his hand in front of his face to no avail, and peered through the haze.

Sherlock lounged half-in, half-out of his chair, his most expensive suit buttoned up tight, smoking with red eyes and green gills. His gaze flicked up, assessing John beneath lowered lashes. Then he tilted his chin, took a long drag, and breathed slowly out.

“Punishing me by making yourself sick,” John couldn’t help noting. “That will show me.”

Sherlock turned his head, minutely, and his lips curled up coldly.

“Yes,” John admitted with a sigh. “Yes, it’s working. Consider me shown.” He shrugged off his coat, hung it up where it would doubtless reek of tobacco the next day, and started opening the windows. Cold air sucked out the heat along with the smoke. 

John rubbed his fingers together to warm them and headed back to crouch next to Sherlock, mouth a tight line. 

“So. Cigarettes. Patches?” he asked. Sherlock raised his eyebrow, and John sighed. “Of course. How many did you—Sherlock, you’re lucky you’re just _ill_.” His hands twitched towards Sherlock’s arm before he resolutely pulled them back and bit his lip. “Can I…?” he asked carefully.

Sherlock wordlessly extended his wrist, eyes flickering over him, concentrating. Deducing. John unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled them up, likely creasing Sherlock’s jacket terribly. Sherlock said nothing.

“Three patches? Along with half a pack of cigarettes, going by the mess on the floor.” Sherlock watched him peel them off, folding the sticky sides in so they wouldn’t attach to the bin. “I’d really rather you didn’t, you know.”

“I know.” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse, deep. It sounded like it hurt. 

John looked at him for a moment, took a deep breath, and said, “You were right.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide and his brow creased. He pulled his arm away and sat up carefully in his chair, back stiff.

“Not about the sex,” John rushed to clarify. “Absolutely not. I’m never going to—no. No, you were right about how I patronize you. That I laugh at you. It’s…” He looked at the floor and rubbed his neck. “It’s not okay. I’ll stop.”

Sherlock stared at him a moment. Then, “I was…” he swallowed. “I said some things I didn’t mean. And I was, perhaps, unnecessarily harsh about it.”

“’Harsh’?” John huffed out a disbelieving laugh before he caught himself. “Sherlock, you were _vicious_.” He pressed his clasped hands to his mouth. “But I’m not—” He sighed. “I’ve been hurting you. And I had…I had no right to make the demands I did. I don’t have a claim to any of your secrets.”

Sherlock frowned. “We are intimately involved sexual partners in a monogamous relationship. I believe you are widely considered to have every claim.”

John shook his head. “No,” he said, “I can tell you how you’re allowed to treat me, and the way you’ve been treating me is not okay. But I don’t get to demand you open up all your wounds for me to see. Those are yours.”

Sherlock watched him for a moment longer, then said, “I know I don’t always treat you—“ He caught himself, angry, then looked away. “I’m not going to change what I am because I sodomize you in the hallway, John,” he said bluntly, glaring into the fireplace. “You can’t make me change by… fucking it out of me.”

“No. And I don’t want you to change who you are,” John agreed, standing stiffly. Too long crouching; his leg was pins and needles. “Just like you can’t make me be someone else by fucking it into me. I’m always going to be a short prick with a temper.” 

Sherlock glanced back to him at that, mouth twisting. 

John collapsed into his own chair and spread his hands. “I don’t want just the easy parts of you, Sherlock. But… I won’t take abuse,” he said helplessly. “You can be whoever you want to be. I’m not holding my affection hostage to manipulate you, and I’m not hanging a breakup over your head to control you. But I get to decide what I let my boyfriend say and do to me, and this month you have been going _too far_.”

Sherlock looked like he’d been slapped. “You’re leaving, then,” he choked out.

“I’m not,” John said, “And I know that…I know this is hard for you. I know you’re figuring everything out and I can’t reasonably expect you to have more experience with this than you do. But I can’t—“ He blew out his breath. “You open my ribs and cut out everything inside when you’re upset. I love you. But this is too much, Sherlock. I’m not what you’re angry about and I can’t be your punching bag.”

Sherlock refused to look at him. He’d already crushed his cigarette; it sat crumpled and crumbling in his hand.

“I don’t wish to talk about this anymore,” Sherlock finally said. “Please leave me alone.”

John’s heart sank. “Right,” he said softly, standing. He turned to go, and Sherlock caught his hand.

“I’m thinking,” he said uncomfortably. “I’m not…I’m thinking.”

John gave Sherlock’s fingers a quick squeeze. “Alright,” he managed. “Yeah. That’s fine.” He stood awkwardly, then he picked up his laptop from the table by the window, hesitated, and headed up to his room.

He changed the sheets, took a shower (the oil in his hair took three washes to finally come out), and dithered on his blog and his email until it was late enough that he could go to sleep.

When he went by the lounge on his way to the bathroom, Sherlock was still sitting in his chair, knees drawn up in front of him, staring into the cold ashes from the fire. John left him to it.

***

John woke again in the very early hours of the morning. Sherlock stood at the threshold, leaning slightly in, then back, as if uncertain of his welcome. He bit his lip and tapped a finger softly on the doorframe.

“Am I—“ Sherlock asked tentatively, and John slid over silently and flipped back the covers. Sherlock let out a heavy breath and climbed in, curling tightly up around him, linking long fingers behind his back. John carded his hands into Sherlock’s hair, pressed his lips to his temple, and breathed him in.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said softly, face buried in the crook of John’s neck. 

John nodded. “Me too,” he agreed, drifting off already. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

Sherlock nodded, clearly not believing him, but he didn’t say anything else and John fell back asleep soon after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooof! Exhausting I know. Not as funny as you're used to, I'm sorry. Let me know what you think! 
> 
> Don't worry about the boys. Sherlock is going to make some good choices in the next chapter and I'm planning lots of the usual jokes and fluff.
> 
> Remember! If you aren't clear on what is going on, please tell me so I can fix it!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to AilsinCade again for being an amazing beta, closer to being a co-author at times. SO PATIENT with my anxiety, I tell you what.

John came awake slowly, but with the creeping sensation that he was being watched. 

He kept his breathing slow, mapping out all the objects in his room. His SIG was still (and likely always would be) in police custody, but he could reach four obvious weapons if the person was at the door, two if they were in the room, more if he included things like tables and books. Conventional was better if he was trying to threaten, but closer was better if he wanted to actually hit anything. Really, the lamp was probably his best bet. 

Right. He was still tired, but the adrenaline would kick in if this was more than a figment of his imagination. He’d be quick enough to brain them with the lamp first, then grab something to intimidate them with while they were reeling. 

Mind made up, John opened his eyes and found Sherlock staring at him from, at the most, four centimeters away from his face.

John jerked back. “Jesus Chr—“

“Ah, you’re awake.” Sherlock straightened up. “I’ve decided to talk to you. It will be easiest downstairs.” 

“What?” John managed, still half asleep and floundering to bring his brain back around from assault to his insane flatmate. “What?”

“Sometime _today_ , John, really, if you would be so kind,” Sherlock told him, rolling his eyes, and ducked out of the room, leaving John sluggish and bewildered.

John stared after him. “Never bored,” John reminded himself, rubbing at his eyes. “I’m never, ever bored.” He heaved his way out of bed and stumbled into his jeans, scrounging for a t-shirt and jumper in the back of his closet. Sherlock had gone through it earlier that week and pronounced half of his wardrobe ‘hideous’, and when John had refused to let him chuck anything in the bin, Sherlock had instead hidden most of his clothes in every disused corner of the flat he could reach. Being as tall as he was, the great prancing git could reach quite a few, and being a little shit, he could come up with even more. 

The one in the toilet tank had been great fun.

“Hurry up!” Sherlock shouted from downstairs, and John had to pause in the act of flattening his hair in order to quell the urge to flatten his partner. 

“You can just hold on for _two minutes_ ,” John yelled back at him, taking his time. He quickly gave his bedhead up as a lost cause, though, and headed downstairs. 

Sherlock was pacing back and forth, muttering, when John came in. “Ah, good,” he said petulantly. “Finally. Did you take a nap on the way? Sit.”

“I should have taken a nap, I’m still completely knackered,” John told him, ignoring the order and heading to the kitchen. “Have you mixed up all the tea again? You have. You know when they’re all in the same box I can’t tell the difference, right? I don’t have the magical deductive nose you do.” He pulled out a tea bag and eyeballed it. 

“John Hamish Watson.” Sherlock stood at the kitchen table, gripping the back of a chair, tapping at it and looking frustrated. “I am attempting to discuss feelings and relationships and all the soft fluffy irrationality you love to insist on, the least you could do is _sit down_ and _shut up_.”

John glanced up. “Oh,” he said, setting down the tea bags and pulling up a chair. “Sorry.”

Sherlock let out a short, angry huff of air, mollified, but then looked unsure how to start. He sat, flipped open his laptop, snapped it closed again, stood, paced, pulled his hair and spun to glare out the window.

John watched him with growing concern. “Do you want me to—“

“Shut _up_ ,” Sherlock snapped, exasperated, then dropped into the seat opposite. 

John waited, shutting up. 

Sherlock took a deep breath, blew it back out, and said, “I’ve mentioned Victor to you before.”

Ah. Victor. John’s blood pressure kicked up a few notches, but he kept it from his face. 

When Victor was mentioned, Sherlock was usually in the process of being uncomfortably surprised that John was not a complete shithead. The last time Sherlock had brought his awful ex up, John had been helping him into bed because he had four sprained fingers, a turned ankle, and eighteen total stitches in various spots ranging haphazardly across his face and scalp; overall the man had looked like he’d fallen headfirst into a bucket of red and violet watercolors. John had kissed him carefully, tucking the blankets around him, and settled in to sleep. 

Sherlock had been wary and hesitant, then confused when John didn’t make any further moves. “You’re going to sleep? Right after a case?”

John had opened his eyes, surprised. “Did you need anything?”

Sherlock had frowned, said, “No. But Victor usually,” clicked his mouth shut, rolled over, and pretended to be asleep.

John had spent most of that night staring at Sherlock’s back, worried and angry. He now considered his options and went for neutral. “You’ve mentioned him. In passing.”

Sherlock gave him a shrewd look. “And you’ve developed theories about him.”

John licked his lips and tried to decide what to say. “Some of the things we fight about…have made me concerned.”

Sherlock’s brow arched, not buying it. 

“Yes, okay, I have theories,” John confessed, “and I want to you confide in me. Of course I do. But you don’t have to unless you want to.”

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table. “Your theories,” he said eventually, looking anywhere but John, “are not…entirely wrong. When I fight with you, I often find that eventually, I’m fighting about Victor. You’ve noticed this.” John nodded, and Sherlock’s mouth pursed. He shifted in his seat. 

John waited. Eventually, Sherlock tried to look unconcerned when he said, “A month ago, Victor contacted me.”

Sharp, protective rage bloomed in John’s chest and flushed through his veins. His vision went red, and his hands fisted tightly in his lap, but he grit his teeth and swallowed it down, nearly gagging on it. “I see.” 

“You’re angry,” Sherlock observed, his voice strange.

“I’m…livid,” John admitted, closing his eyes. “But not with you.”

“No? My contact with him is not uncommon.” Sherlock looked away again, fingers tapping at the tabletop and pulling at his cuffs. He was nervous, working to keep his face blank and failing. John’s anger wasn’t helping—Sherlock was wary because of _him_.

John tried to focus on breathing, keeping his hands in his lap loose and still. “Right. Okay.”

Sherlock looked at him oddly and continued. “Victor is a small man, and has not accomplished much more than bringing me to heel during our time together, to the complete and unchecked delight of my family and instructors at the time. He’s certainly useless now, but he…falls back on our past when threatened. When I come to his attention, through the papers or through our connections, he delights in sending me encouraging notes to remind me that he helped… _fix_ me.” 

John bit down and worked very hard on saying nothing. It was difficult.

Sherlock waved his hand vaguely. “They tend to be congratulations on doing so well despite my defects, or reflections on how far I’ve come since he’d taken me under his wing.” He sneered. “Every so often he dolefully sympathizes with me for being so broken that our relationship self-destructed, but he’s sure to let me know he forgives me.” 

Sherlock paused and tilted his head to look at John, guarded. “He often assures me that he would accept me back, if I could promise to try harder this time. Listen a little bit more. Stop being so _unruly_.” When John made no move, he relaxed slightly. “I got tired of it, and sent him a message to remind him…well. I told him to leave me alone.”

“It didn’t work,” John guessed, unclenching his fists carefully.

Sherlock nodded, watching John’s hands. “It was unforgivably stupid. He changed tack, started asking after you. Started talking about how patient you must be, how accepting, asking me how I’d tortured you this week. Asking if I’d driven you off yet, if you’d gotten…tired of humoring me.”

“Ah.” John felt the fury working its way back up his throat. “You told him about us and he got jealous.”

“More or less,” Sherlock agreed. “I implied and he guessed. Since, he’s become worse. More possessive. He doesn’t like you.”

“Good,” John said decisively, and focused on calm. “Can I help?” he asked, once he felt he had enough of a hold on his temper.

Sherlock shook his head, staring at the tabletop. “No.”

John nodded. “Do you want me to talk to Greg?”

Sherlock looked horrified. “Gr—no. No, I have no desire for the yard to—and to think I’m—no.” He stood suddenly, looking like he wanted to run, and John pushed his chair back and raised his hands.

“Right.” John agreed, backing off. “Okay. You don’t have to.”

“In any event, I reached my limit after our last fight, so it’s best the police don’t connect us. He works his way into my head and I…” Sherlock pressed his lips together. “Contact with him makes things difficult for you. I was done with it, and made some hasty, slightly illegal decisions,” he admitted ruefully. “It’s probably best that London’s finest don’t think of me when he begins unknowingly emailing his pornography habits to his mother and embezzlement records to his company chairs.”

The fury was definitely, undeniably still there, but it took a back seat as Sherlock tried to look nonchalant and John’s smile suddenly blossomed across his face. Sherlock hesitated, uncertain, then quirked his mouth up a little.

“You sent your awful ex a computer virus that emails dirty pictures to his mum,” John said, awed and impressed. “To his _mum_.” 

“Well,” Sherlock allowed, smile forming, “she always was a bit of a harpy.”

“You—“ John couldn’t help it; he started giggling. “You vicious, perfect _beauty_.” He stood and reached forward helplessly, carding a hand into Sherlock’s hair; Sherlock tipped his head down to meet him. “I build up all this protective rage, wanting to ride to your rescue like some idiotic white knight, and you don’t need me at all because you’ve crushed him already. With fraud and pornography.”

Sherlock considered, looking amused. “I quite like keeping you around, though,” he decided, grinning. “You know. For the tea.”

“I can do that,” John told him, “I’m great at making tea. I’ll make you all the tea you want. Although I can’t vouch for which tea you’ll end up with.” Sherlock snorted, and John pulled him closer to kiss him. 

Sherlock stared down at him, puzzled but pleased. “I was under the impression that people generally become upset when their romantic partners admit to secret, long-term communication with an ex that routinely invited them back. I was expecting you to…” He trailed off, not wanting to finish the sentence.

“I don’t own your time or attention,” John replied, smiling. “And yet, you brilliant, brutal wonder, you spend it on me anyway. What the hell do I have to be upset about?”

Sherlock snorted. “Little things like the tea bags not being properly sorted, apparently,” he groused, and John laughed.

***

“Sally will be by later,” Sherlock told him that evening, when John got home from a shift at the clinic.

“Sorry,” John blinked. “What? Are you two friends now? Am I making dinner?”

Sherlock gave him a disappointed look. “You know that we are not. She’s bringing that tedious case with her, the one I keep solving, and she’s going to try to decide if she trusts me enough to ask more questions about it.”

John hung up his coat and headed into the kitchen. “If you put on your most alarming nature in order to keep her from bothering you with this case, you’ll miss out on more interesting ones later,” he warned, rummaging in the mixed-teas box. He examined the two bags he’d pulled out, deciding they were probably fit for consumption. If not, well, John had rolled with much heavier punches than savory vegetable. He’d manage. “You’ll regret it later, when you’re moping around the flat shouting ‘bored’ at me.”

“Yes, thank you, I wasn’t actually asking for your advice,” Sherlock assured him snidely, turning away. 

John snorted and finished making the tea. He set the cup of what had, indeed, turned out to be the strange vegetable mixture in front of Sherlock, taking the lucky find of the Earl Grey for himself. 

Sherlock eyed it with distaste. “I hate this one,” he complained.

John almost laughed at him, but caught himself. “You’re the one who bought it and mixed it in with the rest—what were you hoping for in this experiment?”

Sherlock looked displeased. “You were supposed to drink the vegetable tea because you hate waste, and I haven’t been using it,” he said glumly, and with surprising honesty. “And when I mixed them in you were supposed to drink it because you’re generous with me and would take the accidents yourself, giving up the tea I preferred.”

“Hmm,” John said thoughtfully, taking a long, pointed, pleased sip of the Earl Grey. “Is that so.”

Sherlock watched him and pouted, then took a grimacing mouthful of his own. John manfully repressed a smirk, finished his cuppa, and started on the dishes.

John was up to his elbows in suds when Mrs. Hudson let Sally in, but after bursting in to find the two of them curled up on the sofa together last month, Sally was too worried about seeing Sherlock’s possibly naked arse to open the door to their flat without knocking. Her loss, John supposed, since it was a _fantastic_ arse, but to each their own. Sherlock made no move to let her in, so John sighed, dried off his hands, and went to answer the door.

“John,” Sally acknowledged, nodding at him. She looked across the room. “Hello, Freak.”

“Sally,” John replied pleasantly. “We’ll have you back later, when you can keep a civil tongue in your head.”

And then he shut the door firmly in her face.

When he turned back around, Sherlock was staring in open delight. “You’re displacing,” he declared. “You think I’m awful to Sally and try not to get involved when we argue, but you can’t do anything about Victor so you’re taking it out on her.”

“Mm,” John agreed, feeling vaguely guilty. Not too terribly guilty, though; they were both pretty thoroughly awful. “I think she’ll survive.” 

After a moment of what was likely shock and fury, Sally knocked on the door again. John opened it with a cheerful smile. 

“Hello John. Hello, Sherly.” Sally said, a beaming grimace fixed on her face.

John considered. “Yeah alright. That works.”

Sherlock scowled, murderous. “No. That does not work.”

“Don’t worry, Sherly, I’ll be quick.” Sally slapped down some files in front of him. “You were right about finding the guy’s hotel, but he’d booked the specific room online and hadn’t checked in yet, so it was empty but no one saw him. We also found the skin; in the bathtub, full of bleach. Same bleach squirted over everything in the room with a weed sprayer.” She took a deep breath, glared him full in the face, and said, “I need you to do the thing you did with Powers’ shoes. That you did with the footprint with the missing kids.”

John froze.

Sherlock tilted his head slowly, narrowing his eyes. “You’re not here to test things to see if you trust us. You’ve already decided.” He watched her, considering. “You’ve decided about Moriarty, as well.”

“I want this arsehole in jail,” Sally told him, meeting his fishbowl stare with her own. “And he’s left nothing for us to find. But he’s left something for you. They always leave something for you.”

“You’re not sure if you mean they leave mistakes or game clues,” Sherlock observed, attention caught.

“Does it matter?” she tossed back, challenging.

“No,” Sherlock agreed, pleased, a smile trickling through. “It doesn’t. John!” But John already had his coat on and was at the door, so Sherlock snatched up his own and followed him.

“You’ll miss out on your tea,” John told him, grinning. “Pity. I know how much you had invested in it.”

“Cease your mindless prattle about your teas,” Sherlock told him, sweeping past. “We’ll have no time for your foul brews in the lab. We have a murderer to catch.”

“It was _your foul brew_ ,” John told him, “and I’m just going to spend the time watching you mutter and rave. At least let me grab a book.”

***

John did, in fact, spend most of the night watching Sherlock mutter and rave, until Sherlock decided John’s attention was putting him off and booted him from the room to wander around his mind palace uninterrupted. John rolled his eyes, found a chair in the hall, and sunk into it, exhausted. Sally was already draped similarly in the one next to it, clutching a coffee, eyes shut.

Napping seemed like a really fantastic idea, honestly, so he closed his eyes as well.

“Is it worth it?”

John blinked and sat back up, looking over at Sally; she hadn’t moved, eyes still closed, but she slit them open as he stared. “Is what worth it?”

“The highs.” Sally gestured towards the door with her empty coffee cup. “When he comes up with his answers and the pair of you chase around murderers like madmen, you light up like a believer who sees god. But the in between: the tantrums, the messes, the dead raccoons falling on you from the closet—are they worth it?” 

John was quiet for a while. Sally waited. “Short answer is yes. It would be worth it.”

“Would be?”

“You’re not the first to call living with him ‘hellish’, you know. His brother said the same. Everyone says the same, really.” John slumped back down and closed his eyes, trying to get comfortable. It wasn’t going to happen, and his shoulder would be killing him in the morning. 

Sally snorted. “How unsurprising. I’m guessing because any sane human co-existing in the same space with him would be driven to assault in a week.”

John shrugged. “You’ve already decided that there’s something wrong with me, just as much as you think there is with Sherlock.” He gave up on finding a comfortable position and tried to ignore the ache instead. “You’re right. The problem, though, is you think what’s wrong with me made me get an illegal handgun to shoot people with. You’re wrong.”

Sally glared at him. “Don’t give me that bullshit, I know you brought that with you—“

John waved her into silence. “Not what I meant. I had an illegal handgun. But I had it because I was planning to eat it, in an empty bedsit, where nothing ever happened to me. No murderous intent at all, unless you count my own.”

Sally watched him. “I see,” she said finally.

“I’m not holding out for the brilliant, bizarre, heart-pumping moments at the end of cases, Sally.” He glanced over at her. “They're amazing, but I’m not here for them. I’m here because there is never a moment when nothing is happening to me. Ever. Sherlock Holmes is always happening to me.”

“Sherlock Holmes is a human typhoon,” Sally told him grimly, horrified. “He rips apart everything you build up, destroys every peace you make, and is going to ensure you never die of old age.”

“Yes,” John agreed, leaning back and closing his eyes again. “Thank god.”

“You neglected to tell her about the parts where I bend you backwards over the kitchen table until you shout my name,” Sherlock said from the doorway. “Surely that has a place in your pleasant reminiscences as well?”

Sally jumped, and John grinned. “You know it does,” he leered. “Along with bending me over every other surface in the flat. How much of that did you hear?”

“All of it,” Sherlock informed him, looking amused. “Despite your apparent belief that I somehow lose hearing when I am thinking, I _am_ capable of managing two tasks simultaneously.” He gave them both the same saddened, ‘you could do so much better if you tried’ look John had usually only received from his headmasters in school. “You’d think _one_ of the two of you would have caught on at some point, but you both insist on immediately blithering on and on about our relationship whenever you’re both in the same room.”

“Well,” John defended, “I quite like you. I can’t be expected not to natter on about it.”

“Oh, I don’t,” Sherlock assured him. “Feel free to tell Sally how much you worship me any time you like, I don’t mind.”

“I wouldn’t say _worship_.”

Sherlock gave him a smug smile.

“Yes, alright, don’t get that face,” John said crossly. “Did you figure it out?”

“Not yet, but I will.” Sherlock looked him over. “You should go home.”

John frowned. “Hold on, I’m not even in the same room as you, you can function perfectly fine with me in the hallway, don’t give me that—“

“I can,” Sherlock agreed, “but you have been run ragged in the past month and slept poorly last night; it’s almost morning now and you’re falling over, which honestly is of no use to me should I require your particular talents later. Go home. Get some sleep. Come back.”

John stared at him, surprised, then glanced at Sally. She looked just as pole-axed. “Ah,” he said. “Okay. You’ll text me if you need me?”

“I am terrible at preventing my needs running roughshod over yours,” Sherlock assured him. “I will text you.”

“Alright.” John stood, still a bit dazed. Sherlock nodded briskly, then stalked forward, kissed him, gave Sally a glare that dared her to comment, and disappeared back into the lab.

John gave up and offered her a wave goodbye.

“What happens if he stops being such a hurricane, then?” she asked, curious. She looked as though she wasn’t sure how to take this suddenly considerate side of Sherlock, and didn’t entirely trust it.

John laughed. “He’ll still be Sherlock, won’t he? I’ll just get a little more sleep,” he answered, and headed home.

***

A very little, apparently; about two hours in, John’s phone rang. He slapped at it.

“Hmm? Muh?” he answered. He’d been dreaming, _very_ pleasantly, about Sherlock—even if he hadn’t been pulled from a dead sleep his brain would not be fully engaged. “Whozzit?”

“There’s been another murder,” Sally said on the other line. “Only partially skinned this time. And they’re asking for Sherlock.” 

John rubbed his face. “What? Greg’s not in charge? Who’s asking for Sherlock?”

“No,” Sally told him, “Not the D.I. The murderer is asking for Sherlock; the sicko covered the body with newspaper clippings of him. They all want to play with him, don't they? Meet us at the scene.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah guys, uh, if someone is sending you passive aggressive abusive emails, don't send them a computer virus. Tell the person not to contact you again, and SAVE EVERYTHING-- screenshots etc. I wouldn't contact the police first ONLY BECAUSE you want to be absolutely certain your case is taken seriously: discuss the issue with a domestic abuse hotline or similar first, to suss out how you should approach the police about it. Then absolutely contact law enforcement. 
> 
> On a more positive note, thank you so much for all the fantastic feedback! I keep getting great, thoughtful comments that just pep up my day. I am also amazed by the speed this is building up kudos and hits, too-- you guys are wonderful!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So warning: There's relatively rough but totally and explicitly consensual sex in this chapter.
> 
> Uh. And the body at the start of the chapter is totally unrelated to the rough sex. Another warning for totally gross crime scene now I think of it haha.

The victim lay face up, covered in his own blood, testicles shorn off with something sharp and jagged. 

John frowned. Serial killers were disgusting.

Why the testicles? What possible use could the killer have for them? Even Sherlock generally avoided bringing extras of those home. At least they’d probably been cut off after death, luckily for the poor bastard on the ground. Then the blood; smeared as an adhesive for the remarkable collection of newspaper clippings, each bearing Sherlock’s scowling face, stuck on everywhere else. They’d framed it well, John supposed. The killer had all but put a bow around the thing’s neck with a proud arrow pointing to the crotch.

“I never understand these love letters he gets,” John muttered, cocking his head to look down at the body. “Why on earth would the murderer think that Sherlock wants a small naked man with no bollocks?”

Greg stared straight ahead, stone faced.

“Yes, thank you, I realized it the moment it came out of my mouth. And my parts are in perfect working order, thankyouverymuch,” John told him testily. “I don’t always do everything Sherlock tells me to.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Greg protested. “I completely believe you. I’m sure you stand up to him all the time. You know, just when no one is around to see it.” 

“Har har,” John shot back, standing and pulling off the gloves. Greg held out the small bin and John chucked them in. “The second Sherlock gets here I’m having him tell me something incredibly embarrassing about you.”

Greg sighed. “Mate, I pretty much assume he’s already told you everything. It really enforces clean living when I know that any stupid moves I make will be broadcast to everyone I work with at a moment’s notice.”

“Nonsense, Lestrade.” Sherlock breezed in as if on cue, dramatic and not at all as tired as he should be. He’d probably been waiting behind the door for just the right moment; no one naturally had timing like Sherlock’s. “I haven’t said anything at all about—“

“Shut it, if even you think it’s usually too rude to comment on I’d rather you didn’t shout it to everyone here.” Greg told him. “Have a look at your present and tell me what you can. We’ve done all we need to it; feel free to unwrap.”

“Eugh,” Sally said, staggering up. “What did they do to his—”

“Unusually sharp bread knife,” Sherlock choked out, and John’s eyes snapped to him. Sherlock had gone pale, then a bit green, and his eyes were wide before he suddenly blanked his expression and straightened to his full height. 

Sherlock often went blank for a lot of reasons, but usually it was because he was very upset and didn’t want anyone else to notice. John bit his tongue and frowned. They’d had more gruesome cases than this, even with the post-mortem castration, so it had to be something John wasn’t seeing. Was this meant to be a threat instead of a come-on? Was there something even more disturbing that John had somehow missed?

If Greg noticed Sherlock’s unease, he ignored it. “Well?” he asked, gesturing. 

Sherlock stared at the body; when he spoke, his voice was distant. “The victim is upper class. Very upper class. Old money.” His eyes were on the corpse, but they weren’t darting back and forth for details; they’d fixed on some middle ground. “Never finished university, too much effort. Doesn't enjoy being challenged. Similar pattern in relationships, by the way, and in everything else. Fancies himself a poet, but produces nothing but doggerel. Bad doggerel.”

Greg finally noticed something and was looking suspicious. “Look, Sherlock, I know you’re a genius, but you haven’t even touched the body—“

“Works for his father’s company for something to do, and of course started embezzling, despite never needing the money. One can never have too much, I suppose. His father won’t mind; he’s doing it too. Mother might; she’s a bit uptight about these things. She doesn’t like that he’s homosexual, either, so he pretends for her when he’s at home.”

Oh, thought John. 

_Shit_. 

“Sherlock,” he tried, “do you—“

“Fuck right off, Sherlock,” Sally snapped. “That’s me shown. Well done you, I’m sorry we asked you in. There is no way you’re picking any of this off the corpse, and if you can’t tell us anything real you can go right the hell home. If I had wanted someone to spin lies all day I’d ask Anderson over again, but surprise, _I don’t_.”

“Hey,” Anderson started, but Sally swiftly cut him off.

“Give me one goddamned reason you could possibly know all of this. And you’d better make it believable, and fast.”

Sherlock turned away from the body, finally, to stare down his nose at her. “Because at one point, Sally,” he said coldly, “I was sleeping with him on a fairly regular basis. His name is Victor Trevor, and if you need his parents’ phone number, I likely still have it somewhere on my mobile.”

There was a long silence, where everyone in earshot apparently tried to picture Sherlock getting a leg over more than once with anyone other than John, and completely failed.

“Oh for god’s sake,” Sherlock exploded, “I’m well into my late thirties, of _course_ I’ve had at least one long-term relationship before this.”

“Your hand doesn’t count,” Anderson quipped.

“Oh, Anderson, you’re quite funny,” Sherlock hissed. “Not all of us have the problem you do, though, estranging every romantic partner you ever have simultaneously. How’s the wife, hmm? And the mistress? Going to keep adding on until you find one who doesn’t mind being the dirty secret?”

Anderson bristled and closed on him. “Oh yeah? It’s pretty damn hard to believe this little story, since you piss off everyone around you the moment you open your mouth. What do they have to do, gag you? John doesn’t seem the type, but I can’t imagine anyone shagging you unless they have something down your throat to shut you up—“

“One more word out of you, and I will break your nose just like I did your Superintendent’s.”

Everyone’s gleeful attention swung to John, clearly expecting another scene. To be honest, John was very close to giving them one. His tremor usually stilled under stress, but his hands were definitely shaking now. It could have been the rage, of course. On second thought, it was almost definitely the rage.

Greg started forward. “John, you can’t—“

“You shut the hell up too, if you’re not going to stop your officers attacking someone who has just seen the body of a brutally murdered ex. Bloody hell, what the fuck is this? Is Sherlock suddenly not—“ He cut off and shook himself. Calm. He needed to stay calm. “Sherlock? If you get us a taxi, I can take care of the details here and join you.”

Sherlock glared at him. Then he stalked close, leaning in, voice a harsh whisper. “I don’t need your protection, John. I’m not an idiot. You want to talk to Lestrade about your _theories_ while I am conveniently out of hearing range. It’s hardly a _secret_.”

“I’m not trying to keep it a secret.” John told him quietly. “If there’s anything you don’t want me to say to Greg, let me know, and I won’t.”

Sherlock peered at him, lip curled, then spun away to stalk out. “Tell him whatever you like,” he shouted furiously as he left, flipping his collar up in what looked to be a defensive move rather than a vain one this time. “I can’t imagine them not doing their jobs the one time I wish they wouldn’t.”

John let out the breath he’d been holding and turned to Greg. “Look, can we…?“ He gestured outside the door. Greg glanced at his team, nodded, and followed John out.

“You’re right,” Greg said when they had closed it behind them. “That was unacceptable. I let Anderson get away with too much. He won’t be on any more of the crime scenes we invite Sherlock to.”

John nodded tiredly, scrubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Yeah. Well. You let Sherlock and I get away with too much too, that’s why we work with you.” He sighed. “When you send someone to Baker Street, give us as much time as you can first, yeah? And. Just.” He hesitated, then pushed through. “Just in case. Make sure it’s someone with domestic abuse training.”

Greg sharpened, pulled him aside, narrowed his eyes. “Domestic abuse training,” he said, quietly. “Sherlock mentioned you had theories.”

“I don’t—yeah. Theories. It’s…the things we fight about. Look, I don’t want to get into it now. But…I don’t think this was a threat, or an invitation, or a lure.” He rubbed his mouth and sighed. “I think this was meant to be a bribe.” 

Greg gave him a look. “I can give you until tomorrow. But it will be _first thing_ tomorrow.”

John smiled and squeezed his arm, then jogged off to catch Sherlock. Unfortunately, Sherlock had already left without him by the time he got outside.

***

John had never been happier that the Yard was still in possession of his gun.

He turned slowly, taking in the ruin of the flat as he peeled off his coat and closed the door behind him. It was impressive, he mused abstractly, what Sherlock could do in the little time it had taken John to get home. Artistic, really. 

Thank god Mrs Hudson was out.

Sherlock had opted for furious demolition this time, a marked contrast to his usual bored and willful destruction. John sidestepped the pile of fallen medical tomes that had escaped the toppled bookcase, ducked around the broken kitchen table, and followed the crashing sounds coming from Sherlock’s bedroom. He stood outside the door, bit his lip, then leaned back against it to wait.

Sherlock smashed something, then knocked something else over, but after a few more minutes of violence he trailed off and went quiet.

“Sherlock?” John tried softly.

There was a thump, and a muffled crash, and then door swung open. John wasn’t expecting it; he lost his balance and fell back into Sherlock. 

Sherlock started and shoved John violently from him, but then followed angrily into the hall. He jerked him around and pressed his back to the wall, forcing out a startled grunt from John, and pressed close. “Poor, pathetic genius,” Sherlock jeered, teeth bared, fists tight on John’s collar. “Are you here to comfort me? Love me better?”

“I—”

“Did you plan to _save_ me?” Sherlock hissed, grip shaking, and John’s hands came up to clasp his. Sherlock growled and shook him off, catching John’s wrists instead, forcing them up against the plaster. 

“You can’t just have a fuck, can you?” Sherlock whispered, his breath hot on John’s ear. “It has to mean something, doesn’t it? I have to be broken. I have to be damaged, so you can love me until I’m a real boy. So you can _stick me_ ,” Sherlock ground against him, and John felt a traitorous jolt in his gut, “and feel _virtuous_ about it.”

Shit. 

Of course it was back to sex. It was always back to sex. Every time fucking Victor worked his fucking way into their fucking life, control and sex got completely tangled together, and anything John tried to do just twisted them further.

And when Sherlock had just finally, finally wrested that control back, someone else had come along and snatched it away again. John could see the little hesitations, the narrowed eyes and checked movements, the signs that said Sherlock was watching something very carefully. 

He was watching John, because John was something that Sherlock knew he could control. 

Sherlock desperately wanted to control something.

And suddenly John was completely, incredibly, and so, so inappropriately turned on. Now would be a _really bad time_ to have it off in the hallway. A really, _really_ bad time.

“I just need a good cry on your shoulder,” Sherlock breathed. John shivered. “Poor, beautiful, wounded thing, I just need your patience, your comfort, and I’ll be alright, yes?” Sherlock gave an angry, frustrated growl, emphasizing it with another shove against the wall. John bit back the noise that rose behind his teeth. “I am not _damaged_.” Sherlock’s voice was savage. “I don’t need you to protect me, certainly not from the big bad police who will hurt my _delicate feelings_.”

John swallowed. “I never said you did,” he managed, trying to catch his breath. Don’t react, he thought frantically. And dear god, don’t get an erection.

“You don’t have to,” Sherlock bit out, grip on John’s wrists going almost too tight. He yanked John away from the wall and shoved him backwards over the hall table (Christ thank everything it held his weight), slid a knee between his, and braced both hands against the wood on either side of John’s head. “I can read you, you don’t need to _say it_.”

Jesus. John’s jeans were definitely too tight. He felt Sherlock going hard against him, too, and he clenched his eyes shut.

“There’s nothing to save me _from_ , John.” Sherlock continued, angry and vicious. “Look at you. Wishing me into a blushing damsel you could rescue from the villain’s locked tower. What do you imagine I’ll do when you come riding in, John? Is it a nice fantasy?” He curled his lip and dragged his knee up. “Is it _dirty_?”

Sherlock rolled his hips and John choked, dropping his head back, giving up trying to hide his obvious arousal since Sherlock had clearly seen it from the start and reacted to it already.

“I’m not a weeping, blubbering ball of grief because someone murdered the man you’ve decided is my abusive ex-lover,” Sherlock spat, sliding flush up against him, and John’s hands clenched in Sherlock’s jacket, his breathing harsh. “I’m a sociopath, you bumbling cretin, _I don’t have feelings_.”

“Bullshit,” John ground out, panting, eyes snapping open in a glare. “You just don’t want them because they hurt. You’re upset and miserable and you’re furious because of it, and you’re gagging to fuck me until my knees buckle to prove you have control of something, so _bloody well do it already_.”

Sherlock froze.

“What?” John lifted his head in challenge. “You know I don’t mind, or you wouldn’t have started bullying me around like this in the first place. Don’t pretend you’re not watching my every move and testing how far I’ll let you go, because I won’t believe you. You want control? Fine. _Fucking take control_.”

Sherlock looked ready to eat him, but still hesitated. “You.” He swallowed. “You always let me take control. I’m…”

“Sherlock.” John braced himself on one elbow and tangled the other in Sherlock’s hair, pulling him closer. “I _love it_ when you’re in control. It _turns me on_. I am _rock hard_ right now and I want you to hold me down and fuck my brains out, _please_.”

Sherlock tried but failed to hold back the desperate, deep groan, eyes going dark and tongue sliding between his lips. Then he fell in like all his ropes had been cut.

Sherlock ripped John’s shirt open with one strong wrench that pulled him back upright, let up long enough to wrestle it off, then sank his teeth into John’s shoulder and bullied him back again to pin him against the plaster with a solid thrust of his hips. John forgot how to speak, breath catching, as Sherlock muscled his way between his knees, yanked open his fly, roughly splayed his thighs so wide they ached.

“Jesus,” John gasped, reaching up to twine his hands back in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock bucked against him and bit his lip. “Sherlock, _fuck_.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock said into his mouth, pulling open his own trousers to free his cock and drag it against John’s, only the thin cotton jersey of his pants between them. John slid his hands down to pull aside any clothes in the way and grasp them both, face buried in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock exhaled forcefully and dropped his head to the wall with a thunk. 

John stroked, twisting at the head, thumb sliding over Sherlock’s leaking slit. “Ng,” Sherlock panted, thrusting up to meet him. “Harder. Pull it _harder_.” John tightened his grip, almost painfully, and Sherlock arched into it with a shout, nails ripping into the wallpaper. He ground into John’s fist, snarling, wild.

John pumped them roughly, moaning, his knees weak already, his trousers caught around his thighs. Sherlock was still fully dressed, and he reached down to yank John’s vest up; it caught under John’s arms and wedged between his back and the hall. 

“Stop,” Sherlock ordered him, voice harsh, and pinned the hem of the vest against the wall at his neck, trapping him. John groaned and let go, dropping his head back next to Sherlock’s. He slumped, panting, sweat cooling, still shaking, the cloth cutting in under his jaw. He swallowed around it.

“We should. We should. Bedroom,” John suggested, breathless. “Sup-supplies, ohgod.” Sherlock had slipped his other hand down between John’s thighs, wrist against his testicles, fingers tickling along his cleft. “I. Uh. Ah.”

Sherlock smiled, pressing against John with his thumb, watching him shiver. “What,” he asked, smug and pleased, “do you want me to do to you?”

“Jesus,” John rasped, “anything you want to, so get the gloves and _do it_.” Sherlock gave him a toothy grin and yanked him around, shoving him back into the bedroom, letting him stumble and try to balance at the edge of the bed.

“Down,” he said, and John hit the ground, not caring about the bruises his knees would have tomorrow. Sherlock bent him forward over the mattress, face and chest shoved roughly into the sheets, vest still rucked up under his arms and trousers tangling his knees. He felt a knee at his back, holding him down, and heard the snap of latex gloves, then the gurgle of lube.

Then Sherlock wrenched his arms behind his back and clipped on the handcuffs.

John buried his face in the blankets, completely, immediately, painfully hard. “Where the hell did you get handcuffs? I didn’t know we had handcuffs. I would have definitely used them before this if I’d known we had handcuffs.”

Sherlock sounded amused. “Nicked them off Lestrade,” he said coolly. “A few days ago.”

John paused and turned as much as he could with a knee in his back to give Sherlock an incredulous look. “Greg uses his handcuffs on _addicts and blood-streaked serial killers_.”

“Well,” Sherlock admitted, “yes.”

“Oh no. You are not touching me after you touched possibly plague-ridden handcuffs, change your gloves.” Sherlock looked put out, and John glared. “I said change your gloves.” 

Sherlock sighed, stripped the gloves, and pulled on a new pair. “You are astonishingly high-maintenance,” he complained, petulant.

“If you yank on these too hard and my wrists get infected, I am never letting you restrain me again.”

Sherlock kneeled hard against him, forcing his breath out. “I’ll disinfect them next time,” he assured him, and John could _hear_ him rolling his eyes.

“I can’t believe you put me in _pathogen-covered handcuffs_ —” Sherlock pressed down harder and hooked two fingers into his mouth, and John stopped talking and tried to concentrate on breathing instead. 

“The trivialities your little mind gets caught up on,” Sherlock mused, pressing his fingers in until John gagged, then kneeling behind him and hauling him up, bending him almost painfully backwards to rest his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock slid his fingers out of his mouth and held his jaw instead, and John took his chance at oxygen.

“You touching infectious police equipment then putting your fingers up my arse is not a triviality,” John finally managed around Sherlock’s grip, then cut off as Sherlock pushed one of said fingers up and in, slick with lube, teasing along the his entrance before slipping deeper. John turned his head to press his face against Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock slid slowly back and forth, brushing a knuckle against John’s prostate as he went. 

John couldn’t help it; he _keened_.

“Oh, I see you don’t mind my fingers in your arse now,” Sherlock observed, pressing in another and stretching him slowly. John jerked, spread his legs wider, and moaned. Sherlock smiled into his hair and scissored his fingers, then slipped in a third.

“You have clean gloves on—ah—now.” 

Sherlock snorted and let go of his neck to pull out a condom, fingers still hooked inside him, and tore the foil packet with his teeth. John let out a small, desperate sound as the jerk of Sherlock’s movements made his fingers twitch against him. 

Sherlock pressed them in a few more times, then shoved John back down, knee against his spine again, and stripped the gloves. “Ask for it.”

“Fucking stick it in,” John taunted him, grinning, and Sherlock ground down on his back.

“Ask me properly or I won’t,” Sherlock informed him, moving to press up against him, twisting a fist into John’s hair and pulling his head back. He bit his ear and trailed his teeth down his neck. “Beg for it.”

“Please,” John sighed, arching under him. “Oh god, please.”

“Yes,” Sherlock murmured and eased in, filling him by inches, rocking as he slid at just the right angle. John shuddered, straining against Sherlock’s grip, breathing hard. As soon as John adjusted, Sherlock began to rut in earnest, slamming into him and knocking the bed away from the wall. 

“Oh Christ, Sherlock,” John gasped, and Sherlock snapped his hips forward.

“Beg,” he ordered, letting go of John’s hair, running his fingers through it instead. John slumped forward, spreading his legs wider. “ _Plead_. Make sure I can hear you.”

“Please,” John shouted, “Sherlock, harder, like that, _please_.”

Sherlock thrust into him, bearing down with his full weight, and John’s breath stuttered. Sherlock grunted. “What will you do for it?” 

“I will drink that awful vegetable tea of yours for a week,” John promised. “Christ, touch me, _please_.” 

Sherlock laughed and pressed in deep, pushing down on the small of John’s back. “Two weeks.”

“I will drink all your fucking tea, Sherlock, please.” John pressed his face into the sheets, the weave rough against his cheek. “Touch me, bloody hell, _please_.”

Sherlock chuckled low in his throat and stroked one finger delicately down John’s shaft, then back up, and John bucked, pulling at the cuffs. Sherlock leaned in and John writhed, almost at his limit. 

Almost.

Sherlock laughed and pulled John back up by the hair and onto his knees, letting gravity sink John down still further onto his cock, and John panted and shook. “Are, ah, angh, are you going to shove me back and—ng—forth onto the bed the whole time?” John teased, barely able to speak.

“Are you complaining?” Sherlock asked archly, stilling, and John fell, panting, back against his chest. “I can stop.”

“Oh god no, please don’t stop,” John begged, gasping. “Move. Please move. Please—” Sherlock thrust upwards and John bit off a yell, fingers clenching and relaxing behind him, trembling and weak. 

“Tell me what you want,” Sherlock asked darkly, his grip the only thing keeping John up. 

“Move” John panted, eyes falling shut. “T-touch—ah—”

“I couldn’t quite make that out, John. This?” And Sherlock started rocking, pressing up into him, and dragged one palm down to wrap loosely around his prick. John jerked, moaning, and Sherlock stroked slowly back up.

“Yes,” John managed, hoarse, nails digging into his palms. “Oh god. Sherlock.” He was close, he was _so close_ —

“Come,” Sherlock ordered, breathless, and John arched, cried out, and spent across his chest. Sherlock continued a few moments more, then tightened his fingers bruisingly on John’s hips, gasped into his hair, and slammed hard into him. He jerked, groaned, and came.

And then they fell, panting and sticky, tangled in their clothes, onto the rug. Laid there and fought for air.

“Ungf,” John managed. 

He was quite proud of himself for accomplishing that much, actually.

Sherlock chuckled. “Really John.” His voice was tired, pleased, self-satisfied. “Tea? I tell you to bargain and you offer to drink tea?”

John laughed. “I lied, too,” he huffed after a moment, when he had more of his breath back. “I wouldn’t drink that swill even if you had a twelve inch—”

“You have a filthy mouth,” Sherlock said into the rug, looping and arm over John’s waist. “And I didn’t believe you anyway.” He grasped the base of the condom with his other hand and carefully pulled out, but didn’t bother to tie it before he tossed it into the rubbish with a splat.

“That’s disgusting,” John told him tiredly, closing his eyes. “You’re cleaning that later.”

“No I’m not.”

“Ugh.” John’s shoulder was starting to complain about the amazing misuse he’d just put it through. His knees, too. As well as his arse, of course. Actually, most of him just wanted to get the cuffs off then not leave bed for a week. He shifted them a bit, wondering where Sherlock had stashed the keys.

Then sudden horror dawned.

“Hey,” he said slowly, opening his eyes and glaring over his shoulder at Sherlock, who was stretched like a sated cat across the floor. “You did remember to nick the keys for these, too, right? You didn’t just stick me in a pair of germ-infested handcuffs you didn’t even have a key for. Right? You wouldn’t do that.”

Sherlock gave him a supercilious look. “Why would I have taken the keys?” he asked, disdainful. “What possible use would I have for Lestrade’s handcuff keys?”

John stared at him. Sherlock stared back.

“As soon as I get out of these,” John promised, “I am going to stick you in them and leave you locked to the front door in pink fuzzy bunny ears. With tinsel.”

“Hm.” Sherlock rolled onto his back, unconcerned. “Then I suppose I definitely won’t be cleaning the rubbish bin.”

“You’re not going to be doing anything, you little shit,” John assured him. “Go get your fucking lock picks before I decide to super glue the ears into your hair.”

Sherlock grinned and went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry.
> 
> John is not going to solve Sherlock's problems with his magical wang.
> 
> And he did not just solve them with his magical asshole either.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to AislinCade, who spent time on her VACATION to help me on this chapter, and to LapOtter, who gave it a last runover last night even though she was deep in her own work!
> 
> I feel like I'm getting back to my roots in the second half of this chapter. My roots are apparently having these two bicker and do incredibly stupid things and piss off Lestrade.

John opened his eyes later that evening to Sherlock setting a mug of tea on the bedside table, wearing nothing but a precariously low-slung bath towel and several enticingly trailing beads of water. John’s entire body protested when he moved, but his cock gave an interested twitch anyway.

“Your attempts to seduce me are working,” he told Sherlock. “Your attempts to seduce me into drinking that mixed vegetable potion are not.”

“It’s English Breakfast,” Sherlock corrected him, and breezed back out of the room again.

John stared at the mug. 

That was weird. He peered at it. 

It was probably drugged. John sighed and picked it up anyway, taking a sip and glancing tiredly around the room. Sherlock had cleaned up every trace of his fit from the early morning; it was tidier than Molly kept the morgue. Everything that was unbroken was back in place, and everything that hadn’t survived had been removed. The bed stayed pushed slightly off kilter; apparently something _was_ in the tea, because it looked like Sherlock had cleaned everything up, but left the bed so John wouldn’t be disturbed.

John frowned and sat up.

There was a carefully folded change of clothes for him on the chair in the corner: a set John had always loved but hadn’t yet recovered from wherever Sherlock had hidden them from him. 

Sipping the (excellent) tea, he clambered out of bed, sore, and peered into the rubbish bin, which had been emptied and scrubbed out.

Well. Hopefully Sherlock was apologizing for the tantrum he’d had that morning, and not for something really amazingly awful he was planning to do later. Unfortunately, since he’d never made John any tea when he’d shot the wall, John wasn’t getting his hopes up. Whatever it was, hopefully it had nothing to do with the possibly drugged English Breakfast.

He finished the cuppa and stretched, bemoaning his age as he popped and twinged. That morning had been worth it, but he would definitely need a hot shower to start moving normally again. He yawned, picked up the clothes (probably not contaminated with anything) and headed into the bathroom.

Which was _spotless_. John frowned, turning slowly. Everything _gleamed_.

God damnit. What the hell had Sherlock put in that tea? He gave himself a mental check over, but he didn’t feel anything off except the limp that was not psychosomatic at all -- and in fact had a very obvious, previous cause -- and a miserable, overstretched shoulder.

Maybe it was still coming then. He shuddered.

He showered slowly, relaxing in the heat of the spray (there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with the water), and tried to wake up. He would definitely need to be clearheaded for whatever Sherlock had coming. It was, unquestionably, going to be awful.

***

Scratch that. It was going to be horrific.

John stared, alarmed, at the flat. The same flat that just this morning had been a pile of shattered crockery, broken furniture, and scattered papers. 

Now it was spotless. The only part out of place was the kitchen table, which had been flipped upside down and had a vise holding a leg in place. To cure the glue, presumably.

“Ah. John.” Sherlock brushed past him and set a plate down on the table at the window. “I’ve made you breakfast. Well. Technically I’ve made dinner, but you’ve just woken and it consists entirely of breakfast foods. So.” 

He stood there, looking uncomfortable, waiting for John to speak.

Oh god.

Sherlock would not go to this much trouble to pre-emptively work John into a good mood for a future sin. He’d done something already.

He had done something really, really, _terrible_ already.

“What was it?” John asked him, anxious. “What did you do? What was in the tea?”

Sherlock frowned. “Milk,” he said slowly. “Water. Water-logged tea leaves.”

“You cleaned the bedroom. You washed out the bin. You scrubbed the bathroom and you’ve tidied the flat and _fixed the kitchen table_.” John pulled the jumper a bit away from his chest. “Did you put something on my clothes? Oh god. Is it life-threatening?”

Sherlock was getting annoyed, now, and it clashed with his carefully polite contrition. “There is nothing wrong with your clothing, aside from your appalling taste when choosing it,” he snapped, irritated. “And ‘panicked simpleton’ is not one of the languages I speak. I haven’t the faintest what you’re on about.”

“What did you do? You’re making up for something, and it wasn’t the tantrum,” John accused. “This is something really awful. Own up. What was it?” He paused. “Oh god. Was it you? Did you kill Victor?”

“No, I didn’t murder my obnoxious ex-lover, although I’m considering it with my current one,” Sherlock retorted. Then he looked suddenly sick and swallowed. “I didn’t mean that,” he amended hastily. “Apologies.”

John stared, wide-eyed. “And now you’re actually saying sorry. It’s something to do with me, then,” he said, anxious, “and it was really terrible. Oh god. Well, let me have it, then. Rip off the plaster in one go. As long as it’s not murder I probably won’t actually throttle you.”

Sherlock stared at him, incredulous. “How does your tiny little mind even function?” he asked, bewildered. “How do you just _forget_ this morning? For god’s sake, you’re walking with a _limp_.”

John frowned. “That’s not my limp coming back, Sherlock, that’s—”

“—from when I buggered you trussed up in handcuffs on your knees, yes, I know,” Sherlock interrupted. He pulled out the chair and drummed his fingers on the back. “I made you a fry-up,” he tried again.

John watched him carefully. “You haven’t poisoned or drugged me or introduced flesh-eating bacteria to my person. This is about shagging me stupid when we got back from the crime scene.”

“ _Extremely_ stupid, as it turns out. Yes, John, fine, you needn’t eat the bloody fry-up, it’s repellant anyway.” He slammed the chair back into the table and snatched the plate back. “Nevermind. Forget I made it.”

“No, no,” John said, hands out, stomach roiling and really not hungry at all, “I’d love a fry-up. That sounds great. Leave the fry-up.”

There was a pause, and Sherlock stared at him. “I really can’t imagine why I am ever concerned that you lie to me in bed,” he said slowly. “Seeing as you clearly possess no skill at it whatsoever.”

John’s mouth went dry. 

Oh. 

“You think I didn’t want it,” he whispered, feeling sick.

Sherlock frowned. “No. Yes. It didn't occur to me at the time.”

“That’s good,” John managed. “Yeah. That would have put a whole different light on everything if it had.”

“But you couldn’t possibly have enjoyed that. It’s not…that isn’t enjoyable.” Sherlock started fidgeting with the plate, but realized what he was doing and set it down quickly.

“Well, I didn’t much enjoy the part where you yelled at me beforehand,” John said, considering. “And it would be best to wait to introduce any physical aggression until we’re in a more explicitly consenting sexual context, in the future. But I seem to remember having a really amazing shag. I’m pretty sure our neighbors all do too.” John hesitated. “I’d thought you enjoyed it as well.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s voice was a strange cross between guilty and darkly predatory. “I enjoyed it.”

“Sherlock,” John spread his hands. “Look at me. Do I look anything but completely, joyously shagged out?”

Sherlock peered at him. “You also look quite tired and a bit worried,” he finally said. “And, of course, like your mother dresses you.”

“Stop trying to make me angry so I’ll yell at you. Did I at any point last night say anything not along the lines of ‘yes,’ ‘please,’ or ‘harder’? I seem to remember something else about ‘hold me down and fuck me’. Am I wrong?”

“No,” Sherlock said quietly. 

“Did I not tell you to stop and change your gloves when you were about to do something I didn’t want? You stopped. And you changed your gloves.”

“I’ve said ‘yes’ and ‘please’ too.” Sherlock told him quietly, and that’s when John finally realized the conversation was, of course, not actually about the sex last night. 

It was about Victor again.

 _Fucking Victor again_. 

John couldn’t help it. His vision blurred, he opened his mouth before he’d stuffed the fury back down, and suddenly it was out of him, impossible to take back.

“I’m not Victor, Sherlock,” he bit, “and neither are you. Victor is stone dead on a fucking slab in the morgue right now and he’s _not coming back_. For Christ’s sake, _leave him out of this, for once_.”

Sherlock went pale. John did as well.

“Shit, wait,” John stammered, horrified, hands over his mouth. He groped for words. “That, I’m sorry, I didn’t… I’m just. It’s just. Sherlock, we keep fighting. We’re always fighting, and it’s never about us. You’re never fighting with me, you’re always just fighting with Victor.”

“I know,” Sherlock agreed, staring at the chair.

John felt like a complete arse. “I’m sorry. Shit, I’m sorry, delete this. Delete this whole bit. I’m frustrated and I’m not being fair.” He took a deep breath. “I... “ 

He trailed off, flexing his hands, unsure what to do. Sherlock didn’t look at him. 

“Look,” John tried eventually. “We’re not you and Victor. Situations will seem similar because we’re in a sexual relationship. But the situations aren’t the same. You weren’t ‘doing’ anything ‘to me’ this morning. _We_ were having a perfectly pleasant time. You weren’t taking control from me, I gave it to you, and I’m not going to try to steal it back later.” He blinked rapidly, stared at the ceiling, and took a deep breath. “You know it’s different and can’t figure out why. That’s why you’re panicking now but you weren’t then.”

“I’m not panicking,” Sherlock lied through his teeth.

“Yes you are.” John came closer, and Sherlock froze. John stopped. “Can I touch you?”

Sherlock watched him closely, but John just waited. “Yes,” Sherlock decided after a moment.

John stepped around the chair, reached up, threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. Pulled him down a bit to rest his brow against John’s. “You don’t need to fight for control with me, or sacrifice it to make me stay. Don’t second-guess that.”

Sherlock was silent, but his neck relaxed under John’s hands.

“You can trust me. You can always trust me. I am always on your side, and I will always tell you the truth.”

Sherlock exhaled. His eyes closed, and they stood there, leaning into the other’s space, just breathing.

Then, after a moment, Sherlock said, “I don’t want to have sex like that again.”

“Alright,” John agreed readily. “No problem. We won’t.”

Sherlock pulled back enough to look John in the eye. “But you enjoyed it,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” John agreed. “Very much. But I enjoy it when we have the slow, sappy kind too, or the frantic, hurried kind in the hallway, or the ridiculously poorly thought out awkward kind we somehow managed in the chair last week.”

Sherlock looked at him, head cocked to the side. “Which sort do you prefer?” he asked, curious.

“The kind I have with you,” John answered simply. “Obviously.”

***

Two hours later, Sherlock said, “Let’s try the awkward kind in the chair again.”

An hour after that John decided that chair sex might eventually turn out to be his favorite after all, regardless of having toppled over backwards onto their arses attempting it.

***

“Someone has access to my email.”

John rolled over in bed, still a bit sore from the previous morning, bruised from that evening, and barely levering his eyes open now. “Hmm? What? Your email?”

Sherlock was lying propped up on the pillows. At some point he’d apparently stolen John’s, the little shit—no wonder John had a crick in his neck. He sighed and rolled his face back into the mattress. At least Sherlock was making an effort to be in the same bed at the same time while not actively engaging in biblical relations, and he had been relatively still and quiet up until now. John supposed he got a pass. “Your address is on your website,” he mumbled. “A lot of people have access to your email.”

“John,” Sherlock said pityingly, voice dripping with disdain. John rolled his eyes and ignored him. “Access to the _content_ of my email. Someone involved in the recent murders knows about Victor’s communication with me—the timing is too coincidental otherwise.”

“Mm,” John agreed, trying to wake up since this sounded like it was going to turn into a Serious Case Talk. He was fairly sure he needed to open his eyes back up to do that. 

He wasn’t quite managing it.

“This was also clearly meant to bar me from the case,” Sherlock continued, thoughtful. “Bribe me and make the Yard drop me in one move, since most people know already that I don’t tend to worry overly much about what Lestrade wants me to do.” 

John tried to make a listening sound.

“Are you paying attention at all?” Sherlock asked him, exasperated.

“Yes,” John lied. 

“No, you’re not. Fix it.”

John groaned, turning enough to slit an eye at him. 

“It’s clear we need to investigate further,” Sherlock decided, glaring like John had skipped class and fallen asleep during lecture. Which, John supposed, he had. “We’ll simply have to go around Lestrade and his pack of useless bumblers. Get dressed.”

“What? No. Sherlock.” John sat up unsteadily, rubbing his face. “We’re going to get shot at. When we go around Greg, we almost always get shot at. And I still don’t have my SIG.”

“For the sake of accuracy, we generally get shot at when we work _with_ Lestrade as well,” Sherlock pointed out reasonably. 

John let out a huff of breath, and said “I’m not facing possible gunshot wounds at three in the morning for Victor fucking Trevor.”

“But you will face possible gunshot wounds for me.” Sherlock leaned back on his elbows and gave John a level look. “Not to mention the thrill you get from it and how much you enjoy hitting the person holding the firearm afterwards. No, you don’t want _me_ in danger of gunshot wounds for ‘Victor fucking Trevor’.”

“You’re right,” John agreed. “I don’t want you to get shot for Victor fucking Trevor. But I don’t have control over you, I have control over me, and I am not getting out of bed right now to chase after anyone knowing Greg will be knocking on the door come morning.” He glanced at the clock. “In about three or four hours, to make a guess. And who knows? Maybe he’ll keep you on the case.”

“Gregory Lestrade,” Sherlock said, clipped, “is inept in many ways, but he is not _quite_ so ridiculously incompetent as to let the allegedly abused ex of a murder victim hang about his crime scene.”

“Gosh, of course not,” John grumbled, falling back in bed. “Not even Greg would be stupid enough to think putting you on this case was a good idea. You should definitely ignore that and sneak in anyway. Nothing could go wrong.” He rolled over onto his stomach again. “Go to sleep.”

Sherlock glowered at him. “ _Obviously_ , exceptions apply, and I am exceptional.”

“An exceptional dick, most of the time,” John said into the mattress. “Go to sleep, Sherlock.”

Sherlock was silent. Then he slowly leaned over him and drifted a hand down John’s side to tuck, lightly, under the edge of his pajama pants. He curled it back up, nails dragging into the hair there. “We need to hurry, before Lestrade actually bans us from any evidence,” he breathed into John’s ear, tickling his fingers back and forth. “But later… we’ll have lots of… free time.”

“I am not whoring myself out as a shooting target in return for orgasms,” John told him without opening his eyes.

Sherlock gave an exaggerated sigh and rolled over in a huff.

John managed about five more minutes of weathering the furious, silent sulk before he gave in. “FINE. Fine. I’m getting up. You win, you great prancing tosser. Where did you hide my clothes this time?”

Sherlock leapt out of bed, practically clapping his hands with glee. “You won’t need any of the appalling choices I’ve tucked away from you John,” he assured him. “Wear something that makes you look less like your grandfather and more like a professional—we’ll need to bluff a few people and we can’t do that looking like escapees from the geriatric ward.”

John snorted. “I want my cable knit back, and I’m not going anywhere without it.” Sherlock pouted at him. John was unmoved. “Buck up—I might get shot in it and have to throw it away. You’ll be thrilled.”

“There is always that, I suppose,” Sherlock agreed, slightly cheered.

***

“We could have just asked at the front desk to see the room,” John grumbled as he clambered through the hotel window. “You made me climb through here on the chance I’d ruin my jumper. Joke’s on you—if I ruined everything I wore pulling stupid stunts with you, I’d be wandering around London completely starkers.”

“One can only hope,” Sherlock said absently, moving a chair to the edge of the room, stepping up, and running his torch along the top of the molding. “It might help our solve rate if everyone was too distracted by your birthday suit to notice how terribly you lie when you feel guilty. Take the other side.”

“You’d do it, too, wouldn’t you?” John dragged a chair over, making Sherlock spin and glare at him for the heavy sound it made, and propped it against the wall. “I could be tagging along completely bare-arsed and you’d just carry on showing off.” He clicked on his own torch. “It would serve you right if they finally paid attention to something else for a change. I wonder what you'd do—strip down yourself to out-do me? What are we looking for?”

“Blood.” Sherlock hopped down, moved the chair over, and jumped back up again. “The killer was ridiculously dramatic, prone to theatrically gruesome displays. He wouldn’t have just taken the skin off; he’d have peeled it away like a diver coming up for air.” He frowned, pulling out his pocket magnifier, and looked closer at something along the top of the molding. 

“’Theatrically gruesome displays’? This, from the man who rode the tube holding a harpoon, wearing half a barrel of pig’s blood. Right.” John peered along the molding, and Sherlock snorted and ignored him. “Even if he spattered the walls when he yanked whats-his-name off, he sprayed the whole place down with bleach. I can still smell it.”

“Which is why,” Sherlock craned further, balancing precariously, “we are looking along the top of the molding. The spray pattern from before indicated that our man was lazy and rather short—he shot from the hip, as it were, and likely didn’t reach this bit. Hopefully, he’ll have left us something.”

“Along with every energetic lover this place has seen since it was last remodeled,” John mused, peering at a suspicious spot. “Why didn’t you try this earlier? You know, when we were actually supposed to be here?”

“More likely to find something in the skin.” Sherlock pulled out a penknife and scraped something into a bag. “But that avenue is likely closed to us now. Any luck on your end?”

“Well, someone was lucky here, but it wasn’t me,” John said in disgust. “How did this even get up here? Christ, remind me to look along our molding just in case when we get home.”

“John, considering our amorous activities combined with my usual experimental procedures, I highly doubt you will do anything but upset yourself if you try.” Sherlock paused. “Take a sample, by the way. Just in case.”

John turned to stare at him. “No,” he breathed. “That is _disgusting_. You don’t think—“

“Just in case,” Sherlock assured him. “You’ll only nag me later if I make you climb through the window again this week.”

“The things I do for you,” John complained, and pulled out a baggie from his pocket. “Scraping murderer spunk off the ceiling. It’s like I’m filling a card somewhere with all the most ridiculous things Fate can imagine for me.”

“ _Possible_ ‘murderer spunk’,” Sherlock corrected him, “and I’m sure that’s quite low on your card, really.”

John had just opened his mouth to tell Sherlock whose fault _that_ was when his phone buzzed. 

**At Baker street now, and you two aren’t,** Greg’s text read. **If you fuckers are a) legging it out of town or b) breaking into one of my bloody crime scenes right now, I am going to throttle you both.**

 **Don't know what you’re on about. We’re out having breakfast,** John texted back.

“I see Lestrade has come ‘round and found us missing,” Sherlock observed, heading for the door. Windows were apparently only for climbing _into_. “Unreasonable to presume we would happen to be home whenever he felt like dropping by.”

**Sherlock’s right, you can’t lie for shit. Get the hell out of my evidence, send the scarecrow home, and meet me at the station.**

“Imagine that,” John said sarcastically, tucking the phone away. “Expecting someone to be home at six in the morning. What can he be thinking? What does he think we do, sleep like sane people?”

“It’s nice to finally have you on the same page,” Sherlock told him with a straight face, and stalked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weekly updates now that my contract work is back on the upswing is killing me.
> 
> But I'm sticking to it.
> 
> FOR YOU
> 
> ALL FOR YOU
> 
> Also because writing is fun BUT OTHER THAN THAT :D


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to Dee-Natsuko for guest betaing because I wanted to give aislincade a break, and to aislincade who powered through and betad as well! TWO BETAS. Of course, I've probably managed to riddle this with further errors despite it. :D
> 
> Also I'm yoyoing your feels again here but everything will be sex and jokes next chapter! Well, at least for the 1k I have written so far.

“In our defence,” John said when he knocked on Greg’s open door later that morning, “even if we _had_ broken into one of your crime scenes, which of course we didn’t, you hadn’t actually told us we were banned, yet.” 

Greg stopped what he was doing and gave him a look. “I haven’t actually told you not to beat the stuffing out of suspects or steal evidence today, either,” he retorted, going back to his paperwork. “Although I suppose those are bad examples, since you two do those all the time, too. Hold on.” He filled in a few more blanks, sighed, and stood. “All right. Let’s go.”

“We’re not talking here?” John asked, surprised. He watched Greg open the door again, suddenly wary. “And you didn’t want Sherlock to come with me. What’s going on?”

Greg waved him over. “You’ll understand when you see it. Come on.” John opened his mouth to argue, but Greg didn’t wait, just headed straight down the corridor without looking back.

John frowned and followed. He glanced around as they headed through the building; all eyes on him again. He hadn’t been paying attention on the way in, since he’d been focusing on looking like he hadn’t just come from breaking into a murderer’s hotel room, but now he was starting to get twitchy. Starting to notice things

Starting to pick up a few differences in how people were glancing up at him.

He wasn’t getting the general ‘I wonder if we’ll get another scene today’ attention he usually got at the Met. His hackles went up, slowly.

This was the attention police gave criminals they had yet to catch.

“Greg,” John said slowly, as Greg arrived at one of the interview rooms and held the door for him. “Do I need to call Sherlock and let him know I’m under arrest?”

“You’re not under arrest,” Greg told him. “And you don’t have to come in or say anything, but I’d like to avoid yelling in the hall again. I realize current Met procedure seems to be shouting criminal secrets at top volume in the lobby, but I’d rather not have anyone else listen in on this one. I’m willing to bet you’ll agree with me.”

John hesitated, but since there wasn’t much he could do even if he _was_ under arrest, he went in. 

Sally was already sitting on the far side of the table, which was great, really—two of them, plus whoever was on the other side of the glass. Greg was being careful about something, but it damn well wasn’t about whether he was making John nervous. He felt a twinge in his leg and sat down, and Greg pulled the door firmly shut.

The closed exit itched at his shoulders behind him, but he ignored it.

“An interview room is not where you take someone when you don’t want anyone else to overhear.” John said after a moment. 

“No one else is listening, John.” Sally was watching him, cool and collected, and John’s soldier brain was telling him _enemy_.

He leaned back, trying to ignore it. “An interview room is where you take someone you don’t trust, and you want them to tell you things you need recorded.” John felt his voice rising, and yanked it quickly down again. “And now you’re lying to me.”

“Can’t win with you, can we?” Sally slid a file folder across to him. “Last time you bellowed at us to do our jobs right, and now we’re doing them, you carp anyway. Quit bitching about it and tell us what you can about this.”

John frowned and reached for the folder. Inside was a blown up photograph of what looked like a soaked and soiled A4 printout of an email. It had the sender’s information blurred out.

John’s heart sank.

“I don’t think you need me to read this,” he decided, pushing it aside. “You already know what it is.”

“It doesn’t use any names,” Greg told him. “We need someone to look at it, and I bet you can guess why we don’t want to give it to Sherlock to confirm.”

John took a deep breath and nodded. Looked back down.

It was one of Victor’s emails, of course. He’d known it would be. The fucker hadn’t used Sherlock’s name once: at first it was little possessive epithets, like ‘my dear, lost friend,’ but as Victor worked himself up it turned mostly into synonyms for ‘automaton’ and ‘whore’.

It was charming, really, and Victor only got worse as he went. John continued to skim through, getting more and more furious, more and more ready to tear something apart, until he stopped halfway, too sick to keep on. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see. He wanted to rip Victor’s throat out, beat his face to a bloody mess, break his fingers one by one—

But Victor was dead already. Extremely dead. With very important bits missing.

And, really, John was sitting in a building full of people who arrested you for doing what he _desperately_ wanted to do to Victor fucking Trevor.

With considerable effort, John blinked away the red in his vision. He’d risen to his feet at some point; he wasn’t sure when. He frowned and opened his fist, and the crumpled photograph fell to the table. He couldn’t bring himself to smooth it out.

“I’m happier that Moriarty is dead,” he said quietly, his breathing still uneven. “But Victor Trevor is becoming a very, _very_ close second.” He blew out a long breath and looked up. “You didn’t need me to look at this email. Sender and recipient would all be in the bit you blurred at the top. You fuckers wanted to see what I’d do.”

“Greg wanted to see what you’d do,” Sally said, and Greg shot her a look that was presumably for throwing him under the bus so easily. “I had a pretty good guess already.”

Don’t shout. Don’t shout. “ _Sherlock has not shown me these_ ,” he hissed, leaning over the table. He pushed the letter back across the table, unable to look at it. “Which means he doesn’t want me to see them. Which means you just made me… You made me take something from him he hadn’t wanted to give. I can’t give this back. You didn’t have to make me to do this, and you did anyway, just to see how I’d _react_.”

“You shot the last serious threat to Sherlock in the face.” Sally hadn’t moved, and her face was hard. “You have a long and varied history of violence where he’s concerned. Now we find out he’s been getting these emails, right before his emotionally abusive ex shows up dead. What, exactly, would you like us to do instead? ‘Oh no, we won’t bring in the brutally protective new boyfriend’,” she sing-songed, “‘He’s a _mate_ ’.”

Greg watched him carefully. “You’ve never seen these emails. He never showed you.”

“I bloody told you, _no_ , and now you’ve made me...” John took a deep gulp of air, prised his fingers from the tabletop, and tried to stuff the fury back down. It didn’t go easy, and he felt it sticking to his tongue. “So now you think I’m the murderer. What do you think the first corpse was?” he asked, trying to keep the rage from crawling back up again. “Another ex he just hasn’t mentioned yet? My warm up trial run?”

“We think it looks a bit similar but is not necessarily the same killer.” Greg said, neutrally. 

“Victor dead has _not been good_ for Sherlock,” John said finally, flexing his fists. “And when, exactly, am I supposed to have done this? Sometime in the two hours I nipped home before you called us? I was with Sally most of the night the bastard was found, and I can’t imagine you ringing before Anderson had a chance to go over things properly. _And_ I know there’s CCTV footage of me going straight to the flat and not leaving until I went back to see you. So, what? Did I have a fucking time machine?”

Greg frowned. “It would have been tight—“

“No. There is no way I could have killed Victor, even if I had known what he looked like, which I didn’t, _which you already know_. Or am I only a good liar when I’m pretending I don’t recognize the body I put there while surrounded by the fucking yard?” John stood. “Do you have any real evidence against me other than the fact I love my boyfriend? Am I under arrest?”

Greg pursed his lips, thinking. “No. You’re not under arrest.”

“Then I’m leaving. Jesus, Greg.” He snatched his coat off the back of the chair and yanked the door open. “If you want us to stop working with you _just fucking say so_. You don’t need to keep dragging us the fuck in and accusing us of murder until we catch the hint.”

“John—“

“ _Fuck. You_.” John slammed the door behind him.

***

John was stalking furiously home (none of the cabs seemed inclined to stop for him. He probably looked like the killer the Met thought he was) when Sally pulled up beside him.

“I’ll give you a lift,” she said. “Hop in.”

“I don’t much want to ride behind you,” John grated, “and if you drop one more straw on my back I’m going for your throat, so the front seat probably isn’t a good idea either.”

“See, that right there?” Sally leaned over and popped the passenger door open for him. “That is exactly the shit I want to talk to you about. Get in.”

“Am I under arrest if I don’t?”

“Quit the damn drama and get the hell in my fucking car,” Sally told him, displeased. “Sherlock is rubbing off on you and I’m not impressed.”

John glared at her, but it was a long walk back to Baker Street. He climbed in and Sally pulled back into traffic. 

She let him stew in silence for a while before he broke.

“Well?” he finally asked, staring resolutely at the traffic. “What?”

“The night of Trevor’s murder, you told me the gun was yours.” Sally turned a corner; going the long way, it looked like.

John frowned, not sure where this was headed. “You saw me pull it out—“

“You admitted, straight out, to a police officer, that you had intentionally obtained and carried an illegal firearm.” She glanced over at him, and her face was eloquent; John was not the only one Sherlock was rubbing off on. “You’ve had a complete shouting meltdown at the police what, three times now? Our suspects are showing up from you and Sherlock bloodier than ever, and just as often, dead.”

John froze, eyes narrowing. “If you’re just going to give me more shit over—“

“I am _saying_ ,” Sally bit out, “that you are _losing your fucking grip_. You and Sherlock have shit on, I get it. But you are falling the fuck apart and you know what? I’m not your fucking buddy in crime. I’m an officer of the law, and the only reason you’re not in prison for your bloody SIG is because someone is pulling strings for you high up.”

John was silent, and Sally pulled up to a red light and turned to give him a level stare.

“I _will_ arrest you. If I thought you had killed Trevor, you would be in a cell. You’re right—the timing is too tight. _This time_.” The light turned, and John let out the breath he’d been holding when she looked away to drive. “I like you John, I really do. And I trust you to do what you think is right. But we do not agree about what is right, and I do not let how I feel about people get in the way of my job.”

221 Baker Street came into view, busy as ever, but with an additional police car outside. John almost lost the hold on his temper he’d been clinging to, and struggled to beat it back down again, his throat tight.

“You arseholes,” he said, barely able to speak, furious horror dawning. “This is only half about me. You wanted someone to bombard Sherlock about Victor without me. Alone. You wanted to attack him on this alone.”

“Get a fucking grip on it John! What have I _just been saying_?” Sally pulled up and gave him a frustrated scowl. “We wanted to talk to a possible domestic abuse survivor without his violent boyfriend around. Do you want us to act like ‘real fucking policemen’ or do you want us to go ‘oh gosh well he doesn’t seem the type’ and pretend nothing has ever happened to Sherlock because he doesn’t seem the type either? _Pick one_.”

John jerked open the door, pushed out, and turned to glare at her.

“When I calm down, I’ll agree with you,” he managed, “but I really, _really_ don’t like you right now.”

“I don’t need you to.” Sally told him. “I need you to sort yourself out, and I need you to actually stay the hell out of this one. I know it might not seem like it, but I do not want you to go to prison, and not just because your boyfriend will flip his fucking shit if you do. He’s getting vicious up there already.”

John bared his teeth. “For the last time, I’m not his damn handler, and of course he’s getting vicious. What do you expect when—“

“He didn’t until the officer started asking questions about you.” Sally leaned over. “Shut the door and think about it.”

John slammed the door. He stood fuming on the kerb, trying to get his breathing under control, trying to stop the clench of his fists and the tremble in his arms, and really wished he could just go out and kill all the things that pissed him off the way Greg and Sally seemed to think he could.

Of course, at the moment that would be Greg and Sally, so he would probably regret it later when he’d calmed down.

Instead he sat on his front step and focused on getting as close to normal as he could before he went in and accidentally convinced the officer upstairs he was the rabid wolf everyone else had already decided he was.

***

When John finally made it into the flat, complete with a violin wielding Sherlock in a strop, two women in uniform, and tension that you could cut with a knife, he almost lost control again at the blank look Sherlock had fixed on them. The tremble snapped back, and he had to bite back the growl that worked its way up from his gut.

Shit.

Sally was right. He hadn’t done it yet, but he would probably murder someone soon if he stayed on edge like this much longer. He shook himself.

“Sherlock.” John turned to look at the officers, trying to be pleasant. He was sure they were doing their jobs. They probably just wanted to help. They were what John had asked Greg for and were undoubtedly better than what Sherlock would have gotten if John hadn’t mentioned anything. Unlike a great deal of the world, they likely did have Sherlock’s best interests at heart.

He wanted to _strangle them_. 

“Sally tells me you’ve been having it out up here. Would you like me to show our guests the door?” he asked instead. One woman turned a smile on him, looking like she was staying as calm as she could in the face of Sherlock’s wrath. She seemed nice enough, from what he could tell; she’d apparently stayed calm through a barrage of insulting deductions, and looked ready to smile through more. She probably didn’t deserve what Sherlock had no doubt been saying.

John couldn’t help the spiteful glee knowing she’d had her life picked to pieces for the better part of an hour. 

“By all means,” Sherlock told him, and picked up his violin.

“You must be John Watson,” the smiling officer said cheerfully, standing. “We were just chatting about you.”

“ _They_ were just chatting about you,” Sherlock corrected, lazily plucking a few strings. “Did Sally accuse you of being a second Victor, as well? I noticed you pull up ready to pull your hair out downstairs.”

“I didn’t—“ the woman started, but John ignored her.

“No, apparently I’m the violently protective controlling type, not the manipulative emotionally shit kind. It seems you’ve upgraded.”

“How fortunate for me,” Sherlock said with a slight smile, and John unwound a little. 

“Dr Watson.” The other officer stood as well. “I can assure you we never said anything of the kind—“

“Look,” John said tiredly, “I appreciate what you do and why you’re here. I really do. But people I think of as friends suspect me of a really, brutally violent murder, and you here without me heavily implies they think I could be abusing my boyfriend along the way. I’m really not going to be able to be polite if you stay. Please leave.”

“It’s not about you,” she told him, steady and unintimidated. John wanted to throw her out and scream. “We’d do it regardless of who you were. It’s about history, not about what anyone thinks of you.”

“But when everyone apparently thinks I’m a vicious sociopath, it doesn’t help things, does it?” She didn’t flinch, and he brought a hand up to scrub over his face. “Please. Get out.”

She nodded and held out her card to Sherlock. “In case you want to call,” she said, and he just looked at her until she smiled and set it down on the table beside him. John held open the door, and the officers left, giving him a cautious look as they went. He carefully, carefully shut it behind them, certain not to slam it, and dropped his head against it.

“Not a good time at the Met, I take it.” 

John let out a heavy breath, staggered over, and collapsed onto the sofa, head in his hands. “You were right,” he said quietly, muffled. “You warned me I’d be getting the same bullshit you do, and I wasn’t worried. But you were right. I’m not holding up.”

“You’ve had my issues with Victor to wear you down recently as well,” Sherlock pointed out blandly. “And I imagine it’s much more difficult to weather the sociopath accusations when you aren’t one.”

“You’re not a sociopath,” John said, not looking up. “Please stop saying you are.”

“Hm.” Sherlock was quiet, plucking softly at his violin every so often. Then, “I dislike the word ‘boyfriend’,” he offered, and John managed a short laugh.

“I know. I’m sorry. It’s hard to figure out what else to use.” He sighed and flopped back, eyes shut, exhausted. “Christ. I never knew. You deal with this _every day_.”

Sherlock set aside the violin and moved to sit carefully next to him. He was awkward, unsure; John felt better just from the brush of his shoulder against him. “I’ve become used to it; I’ve always been the villain. You’ve always been the war hero.” He paused. “It’s quite a fall.”

“Jesus,” John breathed. He slung an arm out to pull Sherlock closer, burying his face in his hair, and let a bit more of the fury unwind and fall away. “I’m sorry. I don’t tell you how fantastic you are nearly enough. You’re amazing. You’re incredible.”

“You tell me I’m fantastic all the time,” Sherlock murmured. He hesitantly slipped his arm around John’s waist, and John loosened further into him. “I know already, of course, but I admit it’s nice to hear it.”

“The worst part is that Sally is right. She’s _right_.” John took a shuddering breath that he would not allow to be a sob. “I’m falling apart. I asked for them to take you seriously and when they do, I want to murder the officers that _I fucking requested_. Christ, if I’d run into Victor, maybe I would have killed him. I don’t know.”

“You wouldn’t,” Sherlock told him confidently. “But if _we_ had run into him, you would have handed me your gun.”

“I would have asked you to wait until I’d broken a few bones, though.” John decided, with a short, hysterical giggle, and Sherlock nodded, apparently fine with the idea. Of course he was. They were neither of them normal, were they?

Without the anger propping him up, John had nothing keeping him upright anymore. He was limp in the cushions, leaning heavily into Sherlock. 

And just so, so, tired.

“I think I scare you sometimes,” John said softly, carding his other hand into Sherlock’s curls. “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, and John tried not to hold too tight. He wanted to crush him as close as possible, wanted to cry into his hair, wanted to just _calm down_ by bleeding into Sherlock instead, but he stuffed it in and held back what he could. 

“That I am sometimes panicked in your presence is not a reflection on you,” Sherlock murmured eventually. “That I remain in your presence when I panic, is.”

John huffed out a short breath and clutched at him, just held on, and Sherlock didn’t fidget or complain. After a while, Sherlock pulled away enough to help John to his feet, kissed his brow like John kissed his when they fought. Led him to bed and undressed, curled up to him in his underwear. 

Breathed with him until, exhausted, John finally fell asleep.

***

John woke up early the next morning, his eyes puffy, his throat sore, and with a miserable pounding headache stabbing behind his sight, but Sherlock was still curled around him. 

“I read one of Victor’s emails,” he mumbled, still mostly asleep. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to.”

“So I gathered,” Sherlock said quietly. “Go back to sleep.”

John generally did what Sherlock told him to, and really, that sounded like a great idea. He drifted back off, Sherlock’s fingers brushing idly into his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blehhhhh angst. I wanna get back to stupid jokes and bickering. Returning villain next chapter: that awful tea!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to aislincade for taking time out of her day for me to whine and beg her to fix my writer's block, then tirelessly dealing with my bad ideas and patiently explaining why people move slower than bullets. Thank you as well to lapotter for being lovely and willing to give me last minute look overs all the time!
> 
> UPDATE: Guys don't freak out when I don't update Saturday, I've been early the past few weeks but my deadline is actually Sunday and oh man I need the time this time. :D

John wandered downstairs a few hours later, wonderfully well-rested, but still rubbing his eyes and waking up. He almost felt halfway human again, a _huge_ improvement. Sherlock looked up as he came into the kitchen, smiled, and set a cup of tea on the table for him.

Again wearing nothing but water and a towel.

“I like this new routine,” John murmured appreciatively, reaching out to trail a hand through the moisture trickling down the dip of Sherlock’s back. Sherlock arched into it, and John’s prick woke right up, even if the rest of him was still only halfway there. He leaned in for a kiss. “Is that English Breakfast again?” 

“Hm, no.” Sherlock swayed closer. “It’s the savory vegetable medley. Go on; I know you hate wasted tea.”

“Oh Christ.” John pulled his hand back as if it burned and pointed at Sherlock sternly. “I am not drinking your weird potions. That swill is going straight down the sink. You simply cannot convince me.”

Sherlock gave him a catlike smile, posed, and dropped the towel.

John tried, but couldn’t tear his gaze away. He did manage to close his mouth after a moment, for which he was grateful.

“Okay,” he admitted slowly, licking his lips, cock taking up most of the blood from his brain already. “So I’ve been wrong before. I can be wrong now.”

“Drink it first.” Sherlock, now entirely nude, leaned against the table and let his knees fall open a bit. Grinned as John painfully dragged his eyes back up to Sherlock’s face. “You’ll just lie to me again if I let you wait.”

“I would agree to pretty much anything with you looking like that, regardless of what I plan to do in the future,” John agreed, distracted by the trail a drop of water was making down Sherlock’s chest. He sat down and reached for the mug. “Do I have to drink the whole thing?”

Sherlock considered. “Just half will do, I suppose,” he decided, reached over John’s shoulders to hold on to the back of the chair, and slid into his lap, straddling him. Sherlock ground his hips down, leisurely, back and forth. John groaned, thrust up, and knocked back the tea.

Then spat it all back into the mug with an oath. “Good _god_ ,” he sputtered, repulsed, wishing he could remove his own tongue. He barely kept himself from pawing at his mouth. “What the hell is _in_ this?” he asked, staring disgustedly into the cup.

Sherlock cocked his head, examining him, clearly not sorry at all. “Mostly dried bitter melon and horseradish,” he said unsympathetically. “I’m not sure that should count. You didn’t actually drink any of it. Maybe I should go get dressed.”

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” John growled, dropping the tea on the table and wrapping his fingers loosely at Sherlock’s hips, pulling him closer. “I tried. It’s still in my _mouth_. It’s _coating my tongue_. Kiss me, I bet you can tell.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock pursed his lips. “Perhaps later. Once the flavor has dissipated.”

“Oh god. That was _foul_.” John grimaced, shaking his head. “My erection might not recover, actually.”

“Nonsense, your erection remains undaunted in almost any extremity,” Sherlock told him, sliding up along his lap. His skin was slightly damp still, and John could feel every move straight through the thin tshirt and pyjama bottoms he had on. He bit back a strangled sound and tried not to buck, tea _almost_ immediately forgotten. Sherlock leaned in, voice low against his ear. “My more delicate nature could never hope to endure as you do. You can think about sex through anything.”

“You sweet-talker, you give the best compliments.” John gasped, laughing. “I love it when you call me a sex-obsessed, mindless beast. And I’ll remind you of that ‘delicate nature’ next time you start smashing up the flat.”

Then he paused, pulled back, and looked at Sherlock suspiciously. “Wait. Was that tea another test of what I can maintain an erection through? Because I have to tell you, Sherlock, those experiments are not the most fun thing I can think of doing when I have an erection. I can think of a lot of _much better things_ to do with my erections.”

“The answer would only upset you,” Sherlock decided thoughtfully. “And you’re wrong; you enjoyed the ice cube experiment _immensely_.”

“Sure I did.” John agreed, and stretched up to nip his ear. Then he licked along Sherlock’s neck and nosed into his wet hair; Sherlock gave a soft moan curled closer. “Once I’d threatened you into taking it off my dick. On my dick, it was your worst experiment ever. It was worse than the rubber bands.”

“You do nothing but whine,” Sherlock complained. “I promised never to use the rubber bands again. I don’t have any ice. I’m wet and naked in your lap; what do you have to criticize?”

“You have a lot of good points there, but my point is that I have _horseradish and bitter melon_ on my _teeth_.” John worked his jaw, making a face. “I can even taste it on you anywhere I’ve already put my tongue. It’s still filling my mouth.”

Sherlock smirked. “I could fill your mouth with something else,” he said dangerously.

“Oh yeah, sure,” John agreed. He pulled Sherlock’s hips more snugly up against his own and leaned back, smirking. “You know, I’ve always thought it would be amazingly erotic to gag on as many unpleasant flavors as possible, then gag on your—“

“Must you always be so _crude_ ,” Sherlock complained, leaned over and stuck his tongue down John’s throat.

And immediately reared back with a disgusted look.

“Yeah,” John agreed, grinning. “Tastes awful, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock said airily, attempting to surreptitiously work the taste out of his mouth.

“Oh, right, okay. Let’s have another kiss, then,” John said, pursing his lips and making exaggerated smacking sounds. 

Sherlock made a face that said exactly what he thought of John’s theatrics. He dodged and bit into John’s neck instead, then licked up along his jugular and pulled at his ear with his teeth. John thrust up against him, eyes closing.

“You’re trying to get the taste off your tongue, you can’t fool me,” he managed, breathless. “I tried that already. It didn't work.”

“You’ve tried deducing as well,” Sherlock told him, and dragged his tongue over John’s collarbone. John moaned. “The insufficient efforts of a mediocre mind cannot be construed as proof of an impossibility.”

“Nothing but sweetness from you today, I see.” John arched up into Sherlock, and their cocks slid together against the fabric of John’s pajamas—John dropped his head back in the chair with a soft groan. “What’s next? Going to make fun of my clothes a bit more? Go on, you know how much that turns me on.”

Sherlock smiled, stood, said “Get on the table,” and sauntered off towards his bedroom. 

Naked as a jaybird, sporting a full erection, and completely unconcerned with it.

John leaned back in his chair to watch him go, then shrugged and got on the table. It seemed like it could be a good idea, really, and if not, well, he wasn’t going to argue with Sherlock.

The man hadn’t a stitch on him, and he looked like Christmas. John was just lucky Sherlock didn’t do all of his convincing naked; John would probably be hanging upside-down in his underwear from a flagpole once a week trying to catch pigeons for experiments if he did.

When Sherlock came back in, erection still proudly on display and carrying two condom packets, gloves, and a bottle of lubricant, John was perched at the edge of the table. He leaned back on his arms, spread his knees, and smiled.

Sherlock dropped the supplies on the chair and took hold of John’s hips, pushing him further up on the table, then spread his legs so he was straddling it. The stretch was almost too much; John fell back on his elbows, breath coming faster.

“All right?” Sherlock murmured, hand high on John’s thigh, and John nodded, swallowing. Sherlock leaned in, leaned down, and—

“Jesus—fuck—what—“ John arched back hard and suddenly, hitting his head on the tabletop, hips trying to press up against the wet heat of Sherlock’s mouth seeping through the thin cotton at the crotch of John’s pyjamas. It was no good—he couldn’t move them. Sherlock licked along the base of his prick, pressed his mouth to it, breathed out, and _Christ_ it felt _amazing_ , but—“Are you, are you sure, oh god, Sherlock are you sure that—“

“Quite sure,” Sherlock said against him, and John fell back against the table with a groan.

“You don’t,” he gasped, breathing hard, overextended and aching. “You don’t like. Oh god. You said I shouldn’t—”

“I still would rather you didn’t put anything in my mouth.” Sherlock’s voice was low, hot, and John couldn’t think. “I don’t think I’ll mind if I put it there, however. Let’s find out.” 

Oh _Jesus_.

The cotton had gone wet, translucent, and not just from Sherlock’s tongue. John struggled to bring his brain back online. “Use. Use. Cotton isn’t a sufficient barrier, use—“

“I know.” Sherlock tugged at John’s waistband, and he dragged his legs free to help Sherlock strip him. Sherlock pressed them into place again as soon as his clothes were off, then pushed him onto his back. “Put your hands above your head. Reach as far as you can. Don’t move them.”

John complied, and was stretched out entirely, almost completely immobile. Arms flung up above him, straining to grip the skirt along the bottom of the table, knees over either side, cock full and red and weeping. All of him aching as Sherlock rolled a condom down his length. 

“I don’t like doing things you don’t like doing,” John managed, breathless, “I am _extremely turned on_ but I don’t want this if you don’t want it, too.”

“Don’t thrust your hips and don't pull my hair, and I want to.” Sherlock leaned back in, hands sliding up John’s thighs, and gave him one long lick. John jolted, every muscle pulled taught. “You needn’t keep asking. If I’m doing it, I’m sure.”

John moaned and shuddered, back bending a few centimeters more, fingers tight on the wood. “Can’t—nng—can’t do any of those splayed out like this.”

“That’s the idea,” Sherlock agreed, and took the head into his mouth.

John’s other head hit the table again with a thump, and he ground out a choked noise deep in his throat. “Jesus.” He clenched his eyes shut, trying to breathe. “Jesus _Christ_ , what are—where did you learn—“

Sherlock pulled off, ran his teeth lightly along the shaft, and John was lucky he was physically unable to buck into his mouth. “I never understand why you feel I’m incapable of _multitasking_ , John.” He leaned over John’s hips to reach the supplies he’d dropped on the chair, nipping a few soft bites along John’s side. John’s whole body jerked. “I can often pay attention to what you’re doing to me at the same time that you’re doing it, you know.” He pulled on a glove, poured lubricant into his hand, and gave John a predatory smile.

John tried to come up with something clever to say to that, but all that came out was a strangled whimper.

Sherlock’s smile stretched into a wide grin, and he pressed a kiss to John’s thigh, slipping one long finger slowly inside him. John ground his scalp down against the wood, knuckles throbbing, and shouted as Sherlock hooked his finger up and took him back in his mouth.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John moaned, “please. Yes. That. Oh god, Sherlock.” He’d been halfway there before Sherlock had even begun in earnest—now he was shaking, dripping with sweat, eyes tightly shut, and Sherlock gave a low hum that had him gulping desperately for air. “Don’t stop, please, please don’t stop, Sherlock, dear god, _please don't stop_.”

Sherlock added another finger and brushed them both up against his prostate in reply, sucked hard, and John lost all ability to say anything but Sherlock’s name as he came, keening, into his mouth. He shuddered, tense, desperate, filling the condom and slowly dropping his shoulders back to the table, falling limp back against it, hips likely to cramp soon and not caring.

Sherlock climbed slowly up on top with him, cock slick with lubricant. He lifted John’s thighs, pressed them together, and slid between them; bending him in half to run his teeth along John’s jaw and rock against him until he came on his stomach, then take his mouth in a deep kiss.

Then, of course, immediately pull back with a disgusted look.

“The tea was _your idea_ ,” John reminded him.

“I’d just removed the taste with the latex,” Sherlock complained, working his jaw, petulant.

John started giggling weakly, too shagged out for full laughter, legs falling bonelessly to either side of him. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pulled him back in for another kiss, hands twisting into his hair—

And the mended leg of the kitchen table finally gave way.

Sherlock yelped and bit John’s lip, and they both tried to twist to shield the other. Which of course meant they both just slammed into the floor on their arses at the worst angle, then slowly collapsed over each other in pain.

“Fuck,” John huffed, tangled and half on top of Sherlock, rubbing at his mouth. It was bleeding. “Fuck. I think I just felt my tailbone in my teeth. Shit.”

Sherlock just groaned under him.

John grinned, hand going to his arse. “Well. Shit. I guess the table’s out for a sex surface, then. Mrs Hudson will be pleased, at the very least. She’d rather we stopped shagging on it anyway.”

Sherlock’s sudden snort became a giggle, and John started up as well, and then they were curled up into each other, laughing helplessly, tears in their eyes and gasping for breath. 

“She was quite put out when she caught us on it the last time, wasn’t she?” Sherlock wheezed, shoulders shaking against John’s. 

“Jesus, was she ever,” John agreed, face in Sherlock’s still-damp hair. “What did she call it? An ‘assault of a sanitary eating surface’?”

“Inaccurate,” Sherlock snickered back, “based on the faulty assumption of any surface outside of slides and petri dishes being sanitary here.”

“It usually is clean, actually, for about ten minutes after she scrubs it,” John pointed out. “And then you happen, you mad wanker.”

Sherlock bit him lightly. “Or we happen,” he growled, and John laughed and kissed him. Sherlock gave him a revolted look and John laughed again. 

“I’m throwing out the rest of that tea,” John informed him, rolling onto his back with a pleased huff.

Sherlock gave him a wry look. “Agreed.” 

After a long moment stretching and rubbing aching muscles, they managed to hobble over to the sofa and collapse over it.

***

“You fed me the vegetable medley to cheer me up, didn’t you?” John asked after a while.

He was still lying sprawled across the sofa, one foot on the floor and his head on the armrest. Sherlock was stretched out on top of him, idly tracing the scar on his shoulder. Neither of them had bothered to get dressed yet, and John was breathlessly content lying pressed up against Sherlock’s skin, completely fine with staying there the rest of the day. Sherlock had been thinking, mind clearly a million miles away (Sherlock only multitasked when someone was talking about him or during a blowjob, it seemed) but at that his eyes focused back on John.

“Interesting theory,” he drawled. “I had not realized that forcing noxious experiments on unhappy people was common practice among the general population. I will amend my behavior appropriately. I’m sure Lestrade will be very pleased when I let him know he has you to thank.” 

“You’re doing it now, too, aren’t you?” John grinned. “You’re being just annoying enough to be endearing. You’re trying to make me feel better after yesterday.”

Sherlock cocked his head. “Is it working?”

John laughed. “You know it is, you berk.” He dropped his arm from along the back cushion to Sherlock’s shoulders, fingertips drawing small circles on his skin. “You read my mind on a regular basis; tell me how I’m feeling now.”

Sherlock shrugged, smug. “You become unaccountably fond when I simply do whatever I like. It’s quite fortunate, really. I generally do what I like regardless.”

“But you play it up when I’m in a mood.” John smiled and let his head slump back down, shutting his eyes. After a while, he brought his other hand up to card into Sherlock’s hair. 

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “It’s nice. It’s helping.”

“Mm.” Sherlock returned to John’s old bullet wound, and John drifted off at some point, hands in Sherlock’s hair and their bodies curved together.

***

He woke up again some time later, to Sherlock tapping on his ribcage.

“Apologies. I hadn’t meant to wake you.” Sherlock stilled. “Go back to sleep.”

John stretched a bit—Sherlock hadn’t moved, and John’s everything had gone stiff after the abuse he’d put it through in the kitchen. It was a minor discomfort when he still had a lap full of naked consulting detective, though, since Sherlock usually was bored and moving far before John was ready to. John hummed contentedly and curled to kiss Sherlock’s hair. “I think I may have made up for the last week of sleep deprivation already. Christ, how many hours have I been out since yesterday?”

“You could easily do with more. You require at times incredibly inconvenient amounts of rest.” Sherlock leaned up into John’s hand on his temple, practically purring, and John smiled. “Go back to sleep.”

John let himself luxuriate in the feel of wrapping himself naked around an equally naked Sherlock. “People don’t have a big sleep canister that can be refilled, Sherlock.” He dropped soft kisses along Sherlock’s scalp. Sherlock squirmed, then calmed. “They can’t actually just rub out a week of neglect all in one go. You can’t either, before you try to convince me. You should take better care of yourself.”

“You take care of me. I don’t need to.”

John leaned back a bit to give him a sardonic look. “Okay, that one was pushing it, even for cuddling on the sofa in the altogether. Really? You thought I would swallow that?”

Sherlock looked put out. “I haven’t worn a stitch of clothing in the last eight hours,” he said peevishly. “You’re supposed to believe everything I say and melt into a relaxed puddle. Stop spoiling it.”

“You’re going to go back to shooting the walls _any minute_ ,” John told him, laughing. “Look, you’re fidgeting now. You can’t stand it. Get up and set something on fire already, as long as it isn’t my jumper or the flat, it’s fine.”

Sherlock raised his head to look at him carefully. “I would need to go to Bart’s.”

“No, wait, let me amend that,” John decided, “you’re not allowed to set my jumpers, the flat, _or_ the hospital on fire.”

“The tests on the samples, John.” Sherlock had his ‘why am I beset by idiots at every turn’ face on. John kissed him, and Sherlock looked only slightly less annoyed. “I need to do them at Bart’s. I haven't the proper equipment here.” He pressed his lips into a tight line, then lay back down. “But I’m good like this for now. We’ll go tomorrow.”

“You’re a good liar, but you need to do better.” John shifted to push slightly at him. “You’re vibrating already. Go get dressed, I’ll take a shower, and we’ll go to Bart’s. I’m fine.”

Sherlock studied him. “I don’t need to go immediately,” he said, clearly needing to immediately.

John grinned, and put his lips to Sherlock’s ear. “Sherlock,” he said lowly, voice lazy and pleased, “lets go catch a murderer.”

They were both up, showered, dressed, and out the door within ten minutes.

And maybe, John thought cheerfully, no one would even get shot this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILER someone gets shot this time.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH GOD I have been so amazingly exhausted and busy recently, I'm sorry! This means I haven't replied to all the comments from the last chapter yet, but I SWEAR I WILL.
> 
> Thank you Syllogism, AislinCade, and Lapotter, who betad this fic for me!
> 
> Also: My hard deadline is Sunday night to update, but I've been pretty consistently posting Saturday morning. I have a feeling I'll be posting Sunday with the next chapter, so apologies if I throw you off!

“No.”

“Really, John—”

“No.”

“You’re being entirely unreasonable—“

“No.”

“I don’t see what the issue is—“

“Sherlock Holmes.” John leaned forward over the counter and looked him straight in the eye. “I am not rubbing one out for you in the hospital toilet. If you’re so keen on a semen sample right this second, you can bloody well go do it yourself.”

“I couldn’t possibly spare the time,” Sherlock countered airily. “Besides, obtaining personal samples is bad science.”

“Bad…you are full of shit,” John accused. “Drugging your partner in a government lab is bad science. Beating corpses with your riding crop is bad science. Using the same subject, namely me, for every experiment involving a human being you care to run is bad science. You _love_ bad science.”

Sherlock frowned, pausing in swapping slides on the microscope. They were at Bart’s, and he’d been peacefully mucking about doing incomprehensible things for hours before suddenly deciding to twist the dials on John’s blood pressure to eleven. John had been lulled into a false sense of security, happily watching Sherlock play with his toys, when he’d been blindsided by a request that he immediately go masturbate for science.

Never bored.

Sherlock changed tack. “Aren’t you concerned about the future victims? You do still care about those, yes?”

“Wow,” John said, fascinated. “Guilt. I think you may have discovered an even bigger turnoff than the idea of wanking in a public room that is routinely drenched top to bottom with vomit, shit, and blood. Well done you. You continue to impress me.”

Sherlock slapped the slide down on the benchtop. “What, exactly, is the problem? You do it in our bathroom all the time.”

John braced his fists on the other side of the bench and glared. “I _did_ it in our bathroom all the time, Sherlock, and then we started fucking all over the flat every day!” he snapped, exasperated. “I am definitely not complaining about the sex, it is _fantastic_ , but I am almost forty. _You have wrung me out_. Even if I couldn’t wait to toss one off in a public mens’, I am _physically incapable of orgasming for you again today_.”

“Um,” Molly said, hesitating behind him at the door.

John stared straight ahead for a moment, then dropped his head into his hands.

“Ah! Molly.” Sherlock turned on his Charmingly Winning smile at full wattage. “I don’t suppose you know anyone about who could be convinced to quickly provide me with a fresh semen sample? I don’t need much, just a slide or two worth.”

Molly went silent for a moment, apparently considering several possible replies, but eventually went with “No.”

“ _No one_ knows anyone willing to give you a fresh semen sample, Sherlock,” John said into his hands. “Because _no one_ is ever going to be willing to give you a fresh semen sample.”

“You provide me with fresh semen samples every day,” Sherlock countered, “Apparently I should be storing them against future need.”

John took a deep breath. “If you even think about using our freezer to—“

“Anyway, John, if your concern with the toilets is the lack of cleanliness, Molly holds her morgue to a completely sanitary standard. I’m sure she won’t mind if you take a moment there,” Sherlock decided, apparently believing he had solved the problem. “Would you, Molly?”

Molly blinked. “I…would, actually.”

“The answer,” John told him resolutely, “is no. And the answer to your morgue idea is _definitely_ no.”

Sherlock looked at both of them with disgust and went back to his slides.

“Molly,” John said, rubbing his eyes, “give me a moment to get over my crippling mortification and I will say hello properly.”

“Not embarrassed about our geriatric landlady walking in on us mid—“

“ _Sherlock_.” John pinched the bridge of his nose. “ _No_.”

Sherlock lapsed into a sulk and John tried to smile at Molly. Whatever facial expression he managed instead made her take a step backwards.

“I. Ah. I brought the blood vials,” she managed, setting them carefully on a table. “I’ll just be going now.”

“Yes, thank you Molly, let me know about the semen if something comes up,” Sherlock reminded her, adjusting the microscope, and she fled.

John sighed as he watched her go. “Sherlock. The line between endearingly annoying and pissing me off. You have crossed it.”

Sherlock didn’t even look up from his work; he kept fiddling with pipettes and glassware. “No I haven’t. Fetch me a coffee, will you, Molly ran off too quickly for me to ask her.”

“She ran off because you told her to ask her male colleagues if they would jerk off in a cup for her and encouraged her to let me have a wank in her work area surrounded by dead bodies,” John told him, rolling his eyes. “I think you’ve made your own bed, here.”

Sherlock sniffed. “Nevertheless, I am currently without coffee.” He looked up and stared at John expectantly. 

John stared back crossing his arms. “Yes. I see that you are.”

Sherlock put his chin out. “You could easily remedy this situation.”

John nodded thoughtfully. “You know, I could.”

Sherlock stared at him some more. John was unmoved.

“John,” Sherlock said slowly. “Will you please bring me a coffee?”

John nodded and stood up. “Well done! One magic word.”

Sherlock considered for a moment while John searched in his jacket for his wallet. Then he turned his Most Winning smile back on.

“John. Will you please also bring me a semen sample?”

“Nice try,” John answered cheerfully, “but no bloody way”.

***

The good thing about Sherlock, John mused when he came back in with a terrible hospital coffee in each hand, pushing open the door with his hip and trying to keep from soaking his cuffs, was that as fixated on an idea as the man could get, he could also forget about it altogether if sufficiently distracted. 

Sherlock’s head snapped up when John set the paper cup down next to him, eyes wild and excited. “Metal! Lead exposure, John!” he exclaimed, leaping up and grabbing John by the shoulders. “Lead! Of course!”

John’s care avoiding coffee on his cuffs was for naught. He sighed.

“Oh, yeah, gosh, lead,” John responded reassuringly, setting his cup on the benchtop to avoid getting it down his shirt next. He gave Sherlock a ‘well done you’ pat on the shoulder. “Lead.”

Sherlock glared at him. “Lead! John!” He spread his hands, thrilled with the brilliance of his statement, waiting for the world to recognize his genius.

It didn’t. John was relatively sure his own expression was on the more stupid side of blank. “I want to be encouraging,” John told him after a moment, “but I have no idea what you’re on about.”

“My _samples_ ,” Sherlock groaned, looking as if John was being slow merely to torment him. “They contain traces of lead that indicate similar exposure rates. The blood is from the victim—if the semen is from the murderer, it strongly implies they worked in a similar environment. _Obviously_.”

“Obviously,” John echoed, raising an eyebrow. “And what? They met every week for lunch, went in together on a bucket of paint chips?” 

Sherlock glared. “You are being obtuse on purpose,” he complained.

John rolled his eyes. “Fine. Adults don’t get lead poisoning from paint. They might have a hobby in common that has the risk, or work in construction where they inhale a lot of dust tainted with lead. Are we sure the samples are from the murderer, though? I thought we still weren’t.”

Sherlock beamed. “Exactly!” he shouted, as though everything was perfectly clear and straightforward.

John was completely lost. 

Sherlock’s face went stormy. “Why you need so much sleep,” he sneered, “when you barely exercise your brain _at all_ , I’ll never know. Let me spell it out: John. Go to the second crime scene. Take samples. Bring them here. I will do the checky thingy with them and solve the casey wasey.” He paused. “Please.”

John snorted. “Oh well, if you say ‘please’, of course I won’t be offended by all the other shit you just spewed at me.” Sherlock pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, and John sighed. “Fine. I take it you want to see if the same person left anything in either place. The second one was another office building though, yeah? I don’t think it was close to any molding. Where am I looking?”

Sherlock dropped back into his chair, disgusted. “Look along the tops of the cubicle dividers, John, do I need to go with you and hold your hand, too?”

“Keep pushing it,” John told him, as he pulled on his jacket and snagged a few baggies from Sherlock. “You’ll end up on the sofa tonight and I’ll keep your fancy Egyptian cotton bed with its swanky feather pillows.”

“The sheets are _Supima_ , not _Egyptian_ ,” Sherlock shouted at him through the closing door. “And the pillows are _down_.”

***

“Down _is_ bloody feathers,” John muttered to himself as he inexpertly picked the lock on the offices the Yard had found Victor fucking Trevor’s corpse in. The killer had probably wanted to draw a parallel to the building where John had shot the designer. Like a fucking artist or something. Bloody prima donna. “And what the hell _is_ Supima, anyway? Supima isn’t a thing. No one knows what Supima is. Bastard probably just made it up.”

The door refused to budge, no matter how much John huffed and glared at it. At least the alarms were still out; John didn’t much fancy explaining himself to Sally if the Yard picked him up tonight. He had a feeling “semen sample” would slip out and she would at best never speak to him again, at worst have him sectioned.

He’d probably get picked up anyway if he hung around the door too long, though. Instead, he wandered around the back until he found an open window, caught hold of the sill, and hefted himself up with only a slight twinge in his shoulder, followed by a quick leg in.

John was feeling quite fit and pleased with himself until he snagged his jumper crawling through. He muttered a string of angry curses as he dropped to his feet inside, fingering the new hole. Maybe Mrs Hudson could fix it. Damn it. At least Sherlock would be happy. It wasn’t completely outside the realm of possibility that the entire outing hadn’t been arranged for this very reason, anyway.

“What does it matter if they’re Supima or Egyptian or from bloody Narnia, it’s cotton.” He flicked on his torch and tried to remember exactly where Victor had been found. Was it the second floor? He thought it was the second floor. “They’re cotton sheets. Just say you have cotton sheets.”

Christ, now he was turning into Sherlock, talking to him when he wasn’t around. Next he would be bellowing at people to bring him bodily fluids like a spoiled prince and brewing strange teas to feed his flatmate.

The fluorescents in the stairs seemed to be permanently on, thank god, so he didn’t slip or stumble on anything and break his neck at the bottom. He cracked the second floor door to avoid letting out too much light, slipped out, and tried to figure out where the crime scene had been. He’d been very distracted at the time.

No lights on, here. He tripped over the fire extinguisher and knocked the first aid kit off the wall when he slid too close to them, swore, and started checking along the tops of the cubicle dividers. They seemed to mostly be covered in a thick film of dust and hair, with a noticeable lack of blood or murderer spunk. Poor Sherlock would be so disappointed. 

A gun went off on the floor above him. 

John’s head snapped up to follow it. It was loud, and recognizable to him, but probably not to anyone in this neighborhood. No one would be likely to notice from outside. No one would be calling the police if he didn’t.

Well. _Shit_.

 _Someone always got fucking shot_. He should really just call the Yard and leave, or someone else would be shot, and it would probably be him. Of course, there was something to be said for finally being in a situation where he a) knew what to do and b) might potentially get to beat the shit out of somebody.

Oh. That sounded _wonderful_.

No. No. He couldn’t expect Sherlock to let a murderer get away in order to keep himself safe, then run headlong into danger himself with no weapon, no backup, and no idea what was ahead of him. 

“Damn it,” he whispered, thumbing 999, and ran silently for the stairs, then down them. No service in a stairwell, of course. Shit. Not clever. He texted Sherlock, hoping it would go through when he got out in the open. 

**In a stairwell at second crime scene. Gunshots. Call Yard.**

“Maybe I’ll get lucky and someone will be on the first floor for me to beat the shit out of,” he muttered, pressing send. Then he listened at the door, heard nothing, and slowly eased it open and slid through.

As his luck had it, there _was_ someone on the first floor, and they nearly brained him with a fire extinguisher. He caught it before it connected. Downside: that someone turned out to be Sally Donovan, and she stared at him with a mixture of horror and fury as he gaped at her. 

“Sally?” he blurted quietly, letting go. “The hell are you doing here?”

“ _John?_ ” Sally looked like she was going to swing the extinguisher at him again. He had to admit, this did not look good. If she had been of the opinion he was involved in the murders, it would have been spectacularly not good. “The hell am I doing here? The hell are _you_ doing here? For fucks sake, you goddamn idiot, I _told_ you to stay the hell _out of this_ —“

“— _then who is on the third floor getting shot_ —“

“The other officer here, you bastard, and soon the two of us so _get the fuck out of here_ —“

“ _Hi_.”

They both whirled to the far hallway. It was dark, but John could make out the shape of a man with what looked like a rifle leveled on John’s chest. The aim was slightly off—John would probably get shot in the neck, not the head or chest. The gunshots he’d heard hadn’t been from a rifle; either the man had switched weapons and sprinted like an Olympian downstairs, or there were at least two of them.

“Huh.” John grinned. “Sherlock was right. This guy is even shorter than I am. And stealing Moriarty’s lines, some artist.”

Sally didn’t blink, kept her eyes on the murderer and her grip on the fire extinguisher, but the derision and disbelief radiated off her in waves. “Jokes. Now. Really?”

John grinned at her palpable disdain. “You’re no fun, Sally.”

“John.” Sally told him slowly, the murderer in no apparent rush to get to them, “I’ll make it up to you by looking the other way for a moment. If you were about to do something _very illegal_ in the near future, now would definitely be the time for it.”

John frowned. “I only had the one SIG, Sally, and it’s somewhere in your evidence locker right now. Illegal handguns don’t grow on trees, you know. I can’t just whip up a new one.”

“You’re here _unarmed_?” she hissed. “Tell me Sherlock is hiding and about to do something mad and brilliant. Please.”

“He’s at Barts,” John whispered back. How was he supposed to know this would turn violent so fast? Other than, of course, the fact that it _always did_. “I’m just here for a semen sample.”

Sally managed not to stare at him, but only just. “You’re here for a _what_?”

Damn. He’ known it would slip out. “Or blood,” John assured her, and got shot in the neck.

***

“This is new,” John mumbled when he woke up, the left side of his neck aching. Definitely not the same firearm—the rifle had been a tranq gun, apparently. He groaned and rubbed at his shoulder—his hands had been zip tied together. In front of him, the amateurs. “I’m actually getting more sleep by running around on Sherlock’s mad errands.”

“You’re going to get us both killed, John Watson,” Sally snarled quietly from beside him, “and my only comfort is I will get to say I told you so before I die.” 

They were in a small, pitch-dark room (probably a supply cupboard) and if John strained, he could hear distant voices outside, but coming no closer. Sally was sitting up beside him, hands bound in front as well.

“I’m going to be able to snap these zip ties in a moment when I wake up fully,” John decided. “Any chance you can?”

“You’re short, but you’re bigger than I am.” Sally dropped her head against the wall. “The room’s still spinning for me. Maybe in half an hour.”

John considered. “Any idea what time it is? Hopefully we got something fast but short-lived. I’d rather not have to worry about drunkenly sleeping it off like Sherlock did.”

Sally almost laughed. “I still have that video on my phone,” she admitted, “but no. No idea. Still, at least I’m not drooling and moaning your name, so there’s a plus.”

“Always something to be proud of,” John agreed, concentrating on focusing his eyes. They lapsed into silence while they both tried to sober up. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes later, John shook his head carefully and stood against the wall. When it didn't make him dizzy, he bit the ends of the ties, pulled them as tight as they'd go, and swung his arms down on either side of his hips to force his wrists apart.

The ties broke with a loud snap. John froze, waiting to hear the voices stop and get louder, but there was no change.

“Okay. Okay. Let me find something sharp enough I can do something about yours,” he said softly, trailing a hand along the wall until he came to some shelves. He skimmed along them with his fingertips, looking for anything pointy with leverage.

“If you stab me with anything I am going to bring you up on charges,” Sally warned him, sounding resigned.

“Noted.” Fumbling for unknown objects in the dark was even harder when you didn’t want to make any noise. He didn’t quite manage it. 

Thankfully the paint can didn’t burst open when it hit the floor. It did, however, make quite an impressive bang.

“Jesus, John! Just stop and wait for me to wake up enough to take care of it myself!”

“Shit, I think they heard that.” The voices had stopped and were getting closer. They were also much angrier.

“Of course they fucking _heard it_ ,” Sally whispered furiously, shuffling up against the wall. “If we’re lucky, Scotland Yard _heard it_. Maybe they’ll send someone down.”

“That would be pretty helpful.” John stooped and picked up the paint can.

The door was yanked open and John swung the can, hitting someone hard and feeling _enormously_ satisfied by it. The weak hall light outside was too bright, though—he didn’t see the other assailant in time to duck a hard blow to the jaw. The drugs and the hit were too much, and he dropped.

It hurt. Luckily he managed not to hit his head.

Someone big—John was having trouble focusing again—was holding a gun, a real one this time, and looking _extremely_ pissed off.

“The fuck,” the man said, glaring at John like the fact he was locked in a cupboard was his own fault, “is this?”

 _Balls_ , John thought. _I’m going to get shot twice tonight_. At least Sherlock would be happy about the jumper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUNNNNN so we have a final chapter and an epilogue left to go! 
> 
> Again, my amazing commenters, I am SO SORRY to have ignored you this week, I will remedy that, I promise! You make me giggle and blush and I love every time I check my email and get a comment alert, don't feel like I don't value you!
> 
> Thank you as well to all my beautiful readers who click in to give me a chance, or who leave kudos, too! You all make my day!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALRIGHT so this is basically the final chapter, the last one will be an epilogue like I usually do. Yay! Sorry this one is a little bit shorter than usual-- I promised I'd publish instead of postpone.
> 
> Thank you LapOtter for betaing last minute again! AislinCade and I are running ourselves ragged so otter has been a huge help to us. :D
> 
> UPDATE: So I said epilogue Sunday. I know. I am just not going to be able to make it this time, guys. I'm going to miss an update for the first time, and I am SO SORRY, but I just can't this week without writing a really terrible chapter. I promise, for certain, the epilogue will be uploaded next weekend.

“He broke… I think he broke my tooth!” The man John had just brained lay crumpled on the floor behind the big one, blood pouring from his face, voice bubbling and pained. “Keith, I think he broke my tooth!”

John felt rather pleased with himself. One thing for the drugs they’d shot him with: they were keeping him very cheerful. Of course, the danger and the chance to hit kidnappers in the face with paint cans might be helping then along. A bit.

“Oh for _fuck’s sake_.” The big man, who was apparently Keith, still looked like he wanted to strangle something, but John was starting to think maybe it wasn’t him. “Shut your bleeding mouth, you wanna to tell everyone you tie up in a goddamn cupboard our sodding address, too? _Jesus_.”

“He might have broken my nose, too,” the little one whined.

“Christ. Kidnapping. What are you, ten? A hostage is _never worth it_ , dumbass, especially _cops_.” He raised his gun and leveled it on John’s chest. John’s breath caught. “Cops that _know my name_ now. You drag them around and watch them like infants that can get loose, like this one did, until something goes wrong. Fun! What can you possibly do with them at the end? Let them go? Is that your plan? Let them go after they’ve seen what we look like?” He sighed. “Look, just get your gun and shoot them. I’ll even let you do it. You like shooting people.”

“No!” The short one shouted, panicked, leaping upright. “Don’t shoot him! He’s Holmes’ boyfriend, we are _dead_ if we shoot Holmes’ boyfriend, we are so dead, and it won’t be pretty dead, it will be dead by pieces dead—“

“ _What_.” Keith furrowed his brow and looked John over. 

John looked back, wiping blood from his mouth. The bite Sherlock had left on him when the table broke was bleeding again, too, so he was definitely a mess, but at least he didn’t look as bad as the short fucker. _You should see the other guy_ , he thought, and giggled.

Oh, these were good drugs.

Keith scowled. “You kidnapped. The sociopath’s boyfriend.”

“Not a sociopath, thanks,” John corrected from his very intimidating place lying dizzy and bleeding on the floor. He turned slightly to look up at Sally. “Why am I always the one who ends up the damsel in distress?” he complained. “It’s not fair. Sherlock is definitely the pretty one, but it’s always me strapped to a bomb or tied up in front of an elaborate trap out of a Bond movie so he can save me. What is it about me that says ‘screaming ninny’? Is it the jumpers?”

“Shut up before you get shot after all,” Sally told him, sliding back down the wall to hunch at the bottom with her eyes shut. “Christ, why couldn’t they have used a tranq that would make you stupid and drooling instead? At least I wouldn’t die with a headache.”

She apparently hadn’t taken to the drugs and high-tension situation as well as John had.

“It’s not my fault, Keith! He was just running around! What else could I do?” The short one put a hand on the other’s arm. Keith shrugged it off. “We can use him. We can threaten him to make Holmes back off. I bet if we send a finger in the mail—“

“Come close enough to get at my fingers, mate, and I’ll bite one of yours off,” John told them with a feral grin.

Keith smirked, keeping the gun steady on him, but he moved the aim to John’s leg instead of his chest. “Why the fuck is the woman here, then? Holmes just has the doctor.”

“They were talking. He knew her. She’s probably important too, I could look at the emails again, see if—“

“No.” Keith shook his head. “If we’re stuck with a hostage, we are only gonna be stuck with one. And a _cop_ , Christ, you can’t just _let a cop go_ afterwards. Get your gun.”

The little one scrambled out of sight, and John pitched backwards, half on top of Sally. She gave a quiet grunt of protest. 

“Get the fuck off,” she grumbled weakly. “Did the drugs make you twice as heavy as well as twice as annoying? I’m going to get laughed out of the Yard if I let a civilian die for me, especially since he’ll just kill me after you.”

“Sure,” John muttered back, “that sounds just like me. You know me so well.”

Keith let out an exasperated sigh as his partner came skittering back with another handgun. “I fucking hate hostages. They all think they’re in goddamn charge. Look, Dr. Watson, move. Or my brother here will shoot you, and then we’ll shoot the bitch. She dies either way, but one of these ways, you don’t.”

John shrugged. “Go on then. Shoot me. I won’t compromise on Sally’s life.”

“We are not joking around!” Keith said angrily.

And then, of course, because the dangerous one in the room was not the competent one but the stupid one, John got shot in the shoulder.

 _Fuck_.

It _hurt_. 

It hurt just as badly as he remembered the first time. He gave a muffled, grunting scream and fell on top of Sally. He could breathe, though, which meant the shot had missed the lung. So, silver linings and all.

“Ow,” he managed, bleeding all over Sally. She didn’t seem to mind, thankfully, just lurched forward and tried to stop the bleeding.

Keith spun, livid. “ _What the hell_? Were you just not listening to yourself when you bitched about Holmes _tearing us to pieces_?” he shouted. “We end up in jail if this goes bad, but we end very, very dead if we hurt the doctor!”

“You said to shoot him! You said!”

“I swear to God,” Keith hissed at him, yanking the gun away and tossing it down the hall, “if you weren’t my goddamn brother I would just kill you right here.”

“Hey!” Sally yelled at them. “How about you do something about your ‘hurt-him-and-we-die’ hostage bleeding out, _then_ argue? That sounds like a plan to me!”

Keith glared at her, but snapped at his brother to go get a first aid kit. 

“They hang ‘em on the wall,” John gasped helpfully. “Near the stairwells. I ran into one.”

The brother nodded, eyes wide, and took off. 

Sally was careful, but it still hurt when she moved John off of her so she had leverage for the wound. Keith certainly wasn’t moving; he kept the gun on them, as if either of them were in any shape to move quickly enough to hurt him. At least he seemed happy to wait to shoot Sally until after she’d kept John from dying. 

Sally Donovan didn’t cry. But she did look pretty damn upset. 

“If you kick the bucket,” she told him, both hands slippery and red with his blood, “Sherlock will kill me, too, so don’t you dare put me in a position where I have to shoot your boyfriend.”

“Sally.” John smiled, loopy from drugs, adrenaline, _and_ blood loss now. Maybe shock, too. “You always know just what to say.”

“I found it!” Keith’s brother came running back into view, then stood there awkwardly, not sure what to do. “Uh. I have the kit!”

“So bloody _give it here_.” Sally snapped at him, still pressing down on John’s chest. “And cut me loose—I’ll need both hands to do this and I’d be surprised if your brother here trusted you to keep the gun on us or bandage a bullet wound.”

“Cut her ties and give her the kit,” Keith agreed after a moment. “I’ll shoot her if she moves. Don’t hang out close longer than you need to.”

“I… I don’t know if…”

“For Christ’s _sake_ ,” Sally bit out, shook herself roughly, knelt up, and snapped her ties the same way John had. Both murderers jerked forward, but she just pressed back down on John’s shoulder. John grunted, trying not to complain. “Just slide it the hell over, is everyone in this fucking building _useless_ except for me?”

“Hey,” John protested, eyes shut against the pain, “I kept you from getting killed, just now.”

“By _getting shot_ ,” Sally retorted.

“But that’s the way I’m good at,” John joked. “This is my second time doing it. I’m old hat by now.”

“Shut up, you’re losing blood every time you make a stupid joke, and they’re not even funny.” Sally glared up at the little brother. “Well? What’s your plan, when you’ve finally turned the Freak homicidal and John dies? Tell Sherlock ‘oh gosh I panicked, I thought the big bad drugged girl was gonna hit me with something’? I bet that will go over _great_.”

The smaller man looked nervous, but slid the kit over to her. 

“John. If you have strength to run your mouth, use it to hold down on this while I open the kit. And press _hard_ , don’t wimp out on me and whine about the pain.” 

“Pain?” John managed, wincing as he took over. “I can still breathe. This is great. This is a cakewalk. Last time I was drowning in my own blood.”

“This dick runs his mouth more than you do,” Keith complained to his brother. “What the hell did you dope them with?”

“It’s probably not actually the drugs,” Sally grumbled, yanking out the scissors and going to town on John’s poor jumper, displaying the scar on John’s other shoulder.

“Look,” John gasped, starting to sag, “I have a… matching set now.”

“Shut it.” Sally was quick, practiced. It hurt, and John was probably completely white by the time she finished the field dressing, but he was probably not going to die in the near future. So far, so familiar. Unfortunately, his likelihood of reaching a hospital any time soon were dwindling.

“If you shoot me now, you’ll have to be the one carrying him,” Sally told the two still standing at the door, keeping her hands visible on John’s chest.

Keith was not pleased at the thought of keeping two hostages. “Fine. Give us back the scissors.” 

Sally held them out, sitting slumped next to John, and the shorter brother hesitantly inched forward to reach for them.

Sally twisted, flipped the scissors, and stabbed them directly into his neck. Blood spattered her face and he jerked, but she held on grimly and dug in. Her aim wasn’t what it could be; there wasn’t enough pumping for a direct blood vessel hit, but John supposed there was nothing like a pair of scissors in your neck to distract you from attacking your assailant properly.

The brother screamed, a high-pitched, gurgling shriek, and flailed ineffectually; Sally held him close, too close for Keith to shoot her. Keith swore and jumped forward, pulling his brother away, backhanding Sally to the ground, raising his gun to her face.

John rolled, biting his cheek to bear the sudden spike of pain in his shoulder, caught Keith’s legs in his own, and snapped back heavily. Keith went down, cursing, but he kept his grip on the gun and used it to hit John right on his bandages—everything went white for a moment as the breath left his lungs.

When his vision cleared, though, Sherlock was there.

John was probably still awake. He didn’t think his subconscious would have come up with this version of Sherlock, anyway.

Sherlock had left his coat at Bart’s and stood lean and dangerous in his bespoke suit, looking like an enraged specter. He had found the gun Keith had pitched down the hall; he used it to smash the murderer in the face, and John heard the crunch of bone and saw the spray of blood as he toppled backwards.

There was a lot of blood flying around tonight. Hopefully no one was too diseased.

Sherlock followed Keith down, and _Jesus_ , he wasn’t stopping. He just kept hitting him. He yanked both of Keith’s arms up and back, snapping them out of socket, then wrenching them up still further—the man screamed, but Sherlock just ground his wounded face into the floor and went to town on his kidneys. John thought he heard a snap of ribs, but he wasn’t at his best. He hoped he was wrong.

“Sherlock,” John said hoarsely, “I have a shoulder wound. Who’s going to make my tea if you’re in police custody for beating a man to death?”

Sherlock paused, then stood, leaving Keith wheezing at his feet, and gave him one last swift kick. There was definitely a cracked rib or two from that one.

“Sherlock!” John admonished. Sherlock looked over at him, face still that frozen, furious mask, and cocked his head. Flipped the gun so he held it pointed forward, directly at the younger brother, who was only now making a belated move from crouching in the corner holding his neck.

“Which one shot you?” Sherlock asked John dangerously.

“No,” John ordered. “You are not going to kill him. Sally is right here and she will definitely arrest you.”

“I will,” Sally agreed, rather ruining the effect by struggling to sit up and failing.

“Ah. This one then,” Sherlock concluded, eyes on the little brother. The smaller man backed up against the wall, whimpering. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” John said firmly, “I am not going to break my mother’s heart by letting my partner become a guest of the queen. Harry has already done that. Twice.”

Sherlock paused, and frowned. He turned to glare at John. “This is hardly the same as nicking 200 quid from a shop till, John.”

“No, you’re right,” John agreed. “Sharon finished her sentence _much_ faster than you will if you shoot a man in front of a police officer. And we are splitting until you get out, I swear to god, even if I need to call Anderson to move your experiments out of our flat while I’m in the hospital.”

The gun dipped a bit. “You wouldn’t,” Sherlock said uncertainly. “Not _Anderson_. That’s just spitting on the wound.”

“I’ll let all his buddies help. Go on, call my bluff, see if I’ll do it.”

“You,” Sherlock accused, “are vicious, look, I’m _saving_ you.” But he lowered the gun to the floor, and his face was sliding back into normal.

“Come here and examine my battle wounds instead,” John suggested cheerfully. “Look, I’ve got matching ones now.”

“Oh my god,” Sally muttered from the floor beside him, “are you going to go back through every stupid joke you told me tonight now that you have someone here to humor you?”

“You were telling inappropriate jokes at a crime scene to _Sally_?” Sherlock asked, moving away from the brother.

“She meant nothing to me, I swear,” John assured him.

“If you still have the gun you could just shoot me instead,” Sally grumbled. “I’m in enough pain from my head already without putting up with comedy hour from the two of you.”

The little brother belatedly lurched forward, and Sherlock, quick as a snake, fired the gun into the plaster above him. “Don’t try it,” Sherlock warned him. “I would be very happy to be forced to kill you at the moment.” He pulled out his phone with the other hand and started texting. “Just stay still there until the police arrive, and you may yet live out the night.”

“Sherlock,” John said suspiciously, “are you texting Greg? Are you only _just now_ contacting the police? You didn’t think to do that when you _received my text_?”

“Had I received a text, I would certainly have contacted them earlier.” Sherlock put away the phone, but not before John caught his hand shaking slightly. “I came tonight because I wished to join you in looking for samples.”

“You missed me.” John grinned. “Come give us a kiss, then.”

“John, you are wounded and bleeding and it is all I can do not to murder everyone involved and abscond with you to a cave,” Sherlock warned him, hesitating. “If I go anywhere near you I am likely to crumble into a blubbering mess on top of you. You can’t want that.”

“That sounds fantastic, actually.” John weakly held up a hand. “It does hurt a bit,” he said plaintively.

“ _Christ_ ,” Sherlock dropped to his knees and put a hand to John’s hair, stroking it carefully, grip on the gun loose. “Are you alright? No, of course, I can see you’re alright, Sally has excellent first aid skills despite being _sorely_ lacking when it comes to policing ones, but _are you alright_?”

“Fuck off,” Sally told him.

“Yes, I’m fine, Sherlock, I’m fine.” John reached up to touch Sherlock’s face and smeared a long streak of red along it by accident. It made Sherlock look demented. “And cheer up, I’ve ruined this jumper. You _hate_ this jumper.”

Sherlock smiled. “I do hate that jumper.”

“Right, well, there is no coming back for this jumper. This jumper has kicked the bucket. And even better, I’ll have matching scars now.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, frowning. “So you told me earlier.”

“Did I?” John asked, and passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry he's fine just a little damaged hospital will fix it.
> 
> I am so wiped guys. I am not sure I will have the epilogue out before sunday night next week. BTW, in case you didn't know from my tumblr or antidiogenes, I am pregnant and the second trimester is NOT the energy boost full of not-sick mornings it is billed as. Don't believe them. They lie.
> 
> Also don't panic I'm a grownup and financially stable and my husband and I planned this pregnancy for a long time. :D The misery I am currently in was totally intentional and the doctor says I'm fine, just not happy about it haha.
> 
> In retrospect the incessant hormonal irritability is probably why there was so much angst in this fic.
> 
> Upside, once I go into labor my hospital room has a jacuzzi, I had no idea. Did you know they had jacuzzis for laboring women in hospitals? I did not.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has only been partially beta'd because I took until Sunday evening to finish it! If you notice mistakes, PLEASE let me know!
> 
> Thank you all so much for the support, kudos, comments, and wonderful kind words throughout this project! It really, really means a lot to me. I have fallen behind on replying to my comments-- this doesn't mean I'm not reading them! I'm sorry! You are all wonderful! I will catch up, I swear!

John woke up to aching pain, stiff hospital sheets, and a headache that had him ready to snap at the first person that spoke to him.

“The pump is to your left.” Sherlock’s voice was soft, quiet. Non-confrontational. John’s mood was clearly visible at a glance.

“Oh god, yes, please, morphine.” John groped with his less-damaged arm (the other one was in a sling) and hit the button, sighing in relief as everything started to go muzzy and soft again. “Mm. I love you.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and smiled a bit as John broke into a dopey grin. 

“Hey, look—“ John started.

“You have matching gunshot wounds, yes, I know.” Sherlock told him with a sigh. John stared at him.

“How—”

“I swear to god,” Sally said from the other side of the bed. John’s vision swam a bit as he turned abruptly, surprised. “If you tell that goddamn joke _one more time_ I am going to smother you with your own pillow, whether you saved my life or not.”

“To your credit, many of the nurses found it amusing.” Sherlock assured him.

“The first time,” Sally interjected. “Right now they feel sorry for you, and eventually they are going to want to smother you too.” 

John tried very hard to think through the haze of painkillers. “Sherlock,” he managed, turning back to furrow his brow at him. Sherlock pursed his lips, trying not to smile. “What is Sally Donovan doing at my hospital bedside?”

“Sally Donovan is sitting right next to you and can hear you,” Sally told him, going back to her crossword. “Sally Donovan felt like there should be someone here who didn’t loom, insult, deduce and scare away all medical personnel because they weren’t worthy of tending to his precious snookums.”

“The word you’re stuck on is ‘galliform’.” Sherlock told her snidely. Sally glared at him and maneuvered the paper so he couldn’t see it.

“No good,” John told her, sympathetic but half asleep already. “He’s already solved the whole thing in his head.”

“Your next one is sabelline,” Sherlock confirmed.

“It’s a lucky thing you two can stand each other,” Sally snapped, “since I’m hard pressed to come up with anyone else who can.”

John gave her a wide smile. “You’re sitting at my bedside making sure I’m alright.” Sally studiously ignored him. “I can stand you too, Sally.”

“Don’t get too sappy, your boyfriend will get jealous,” she grumbled, jerking her chin at Sherlock and going back to the puzzle.

Sherlock looked sour. “Oblation,” he told her.

“I’m getting a new fucking crossword,” Sally decided, dropping it. “Hopefully by then John will have drugged himself to sleep and you’ll go back to moodily staring at him like a pining vampire.”

“Don’t worry,” John reassured Sherlock, “I can stand you more”

“Of course,” Sherlock answered primly. “I’m immensely more bearable than Sally.”

“Plus you give me blowjobs,” John pointed out, eyes drifting shut.

Sally made the same noise she made when she had just discovered a rotting hand floating in the toilet. John recognized it from the last drugs bust at their flat.

Sherlock glared at her.

“Don’t fight,” John mumbled. “I can… I can stand you both. You’re both…completely bearable.”

“Wow. Thanks,” Sally said, raising an eyebrow, and John finally drifted off.

***

When the doctors finally released John from the hospital, Sally drove them home in her squad car.

Sherlock was _not pleased_. He helped John into the back, somehow managing to convey a heavily put-upon, beleaguered, miserable air without saying a word.

“Sally offered, Sherlock, and you spend a fortune on cabs already,” John finally snapped. “Your highness can bloody deal with it.”

“Eugh,” Sherlock shuddered. “Perhaps I’ll ride up front.”

“You’re going to sit right here and rub my neck or I’ll bite you,” John ordered him. “I have a gunshot wound. I deserve it.” 

“I saved you from two armed assailants; I feel my responsibilities are well met,” Sherlock complained, but climbed in beside him and slipped a hand under his collar anyway. 

John leaned back against it. “Sally had already stabbed one of them, and I helped on the second. You still owe me neck rubs—ouch, not on the bruised side, though, I did get shot with a tranq dart.” He was on anti-inflammatory painkillers now, and not having nearly as pleasant a time as he had been earlier. He groaned when he twisted the wrong way to buckle his seatbelt. “I miss the morphine.”

“Don’t we all miss you on morphine,” Sherlock agreed irritably. 

“Don’t worry,” Sally told Sherlock from the front seat, pulling into traffic. “I recorded him for later. You both have matching his and his drugged videos on my phone now.”

John gave her a confused look.

“You’d probably rather not know,” Sherlock muttered. 

“When you finally shut up about your matching war wounds,” Sally informed him cheerfully, “and telling me how entirely bearable I was, you proposed wedded bliss to the nurse who came to check on your morphine pump.” Sally grinned into the rearview mirror. “She agreed.”

John risked a glance at Sherlock. Sherlock looked ready to stab his own eyes out.

Sally flipped on the turn signal on with a flourish. “Don’t worry, you panicked and told her you were only joking, since you were planning to marry your flatmate.”

John’s mouth went dry. “I… what?”

“Mm. According to your doped up monologue, Sherlock’s going to wear white, even though you two have been having ‘sex all over’, because he doesn’t like ivory. And ‘anyway it’s an outdated practice and kind of patronizing,’ I’m told.”

John covered his face with his good hand.

“You can watch the whole video if you like,” she offered. “I’ll email it to you.”

“Maybe this gunshot wound will be fatal after all,” John said hopefully, still covering his eyes.

“No such luck, the doctors say you’ll be fine.” Sally was having a wonderful time; John thought he might actually prefer her frustrated and surly. At least Sherlock didn’t have anything to add, instead looking as uncomfortable as John was. “Oh! And the nurse is a friend of the woman doing your physical therapy later on. So she’ll be asking you about your fiancé when you see her, I imagine.”

John opted to sulk silently the rest of the way home.

***

A few days later, John had already had quite enough of his shoulder. He had been laid up on terrible painkillers because he’d been hesitant to bring anything better into a flat with an ex-addict. He had a sensitive, yellowing bruise across his face, another, deeper one spanning the entire side of his neck, and his ribs were tender where London’s shortest murderer had apparently kicked him while he was out, the little shit.

John Watson was not a happy camper.

And Sherlock was the _worst_ at nursing.

For the first few days, lying immobile on the sofa and unable to move or protest loudly enough, John had been used as a table (twice), an only partially willing science experiment (eight times), a terribly uninterested sounding board (once), and a prop for various books, tools, and instruments (four times). In addition, there was a particularly memorable occasion where he found himself being splayed out on the floor to recreate a murder scene. 

Which all wasn’t, to be honest, that much different from a regular week at 221B, but to top it all off Sherlock had brought home more of the awful vegetable teas: tomato basil this time. As if John wouldn’t notice he’d been handed spaghetti sauce in hot water instead of a proper Earl Grey. As if he’d just drink it like it was an acceptable substitute.

Fine. John could make the tea, then. He was a big boy. He heaved himself from the sofa, shuffled into the kitchen, and flicked on the kettle, trying to ignore the unhappy stretch his shoulder was going through. 

Tea wasn’t that difficult—he could do this by himself. 

Unfortunately he could almost immediately cock it up by himself, too, as it turned out. He reached with his right hand without thinking, pulled everything the wrong way, and shattered the damn mug across the floor with a pained curse. He’d had time to fill it with water and a tea bag, and the hot tea was now spilled down his jumper and over the few surviving clean patches of the kitchen, while the cup shards skittered across the floor and wedged themselves in every crevice they could find.

John slammed his good arm (formerly his bad one, and wasn’t that frustrating, he had two bad arms now) down hard on the once-again-mended kitchen table. “Bloody fucking buggering _hell_!”

Sherlock glanced up from John’s laptop. “You do realize that, contrary to all expectation, you continue to have a hole through your shoulder? Despite wishing as hard as you can for it to go away?” John gave him a look that would make anyone else cringe; Sherlock snorted, unaffected. “Perhaps you should close your eyes and try again. This time it will work for certain.”

“Shut it, smartarse.” John blew out his breath and glared at the mess. “Dammit. _Dammit_.”

“You should have just accepted the better painkillers,” Sherlock continued, unconcerned. “I always tended towards more exciting methods of altering my consciousness; your medication would have been perfectly safe from me.”

John ignored him and decided that fuck it, he wasn’t cleaning up because Sherlock was right, he had a hole through his shoulder. He gave the kitchen another glare, peeled off his sodden jumper with difficulty, stalked away, and collapsed onto the sofa. The flat was warm enough that he wasn’t cold yet in the slightly damp t-shirt he still had on, thankfully, one small silver lining on the whole awful afternoon.

Sherlock wordlessly stood from his chair and sat next to him. John slid down slowly until his head was in Sherlock’s lap, and Sherlock absently placed his hand over the crown of John’s head, still typing with the other.

John started to feel a little better.

Sherlock glanced down at him. “I’ll keep in mind, next time you try to prevent me from committing murder because you need me around to make tea, that you will just try to make it without me anyway.”

John snorted. “Yes, I’m sure that was the part of the argument that convinced you.”

“Oh, entirely.” Sherlock gave the keyboard a few brutal taps, then snapped it closed with a flourish and dropped it cavalierly to the floor, ignoring John’s half-hearted protest. “Lestrade is an even poorer typist than you are. Although as you’ve currently only one hand to hunt and peck with, I suppose you may be equals for a while.”

John could barely work up an annoyed huff in response; it was true. He really was a terrible typist. “What’s he emailing you for, anyway? Did he break his phone? Did _you_ break his phone?”

Sherlock leaned back against the cushions, kicked his feet up on the coffee table, and waved his free hand dismissively. “He finds it easier to type long blocks of text on a keyboard than on his mobile, and Sally thinks that if he gives me more detail, I’ll bother her less.”

“Hah.” John grinned. “Won’t work, but good thought. What did he have to say?”

Sherlock sneered. “The idiots that shot you were relatives of our murder instructor—it’s the only way the younger would have ever been accepted into the program, of course. I had deduced as much already. They heard of my involvement in their aunt’s death and looked into me: not a difficult task, very little of my life remains out of the public record. My emails, however, required more specialized skills, so it seems the short one was actually competent at something.” He sighed, disappointed. “It certainly wasn’t murder, he was atrocious at that.”

“And when they heard we were getting involved in their case, they panicked, and tried to bribe and threaten you with Victor,” John guessed. “The short one is the crazy one, right? Pulling on skins and dancing off to Tesco’s and the like. The older one keeps bailing him out of trouble.”

Sherlock gave him the ‘a hundred monkeys and a hundred typewriters’ look that said John had guessed correctly, but Sherlock felt it was unfair since he’d chanced upon it mostly through speculation and luck. “Kept, past tense,” Sherlock agreed sourly. “Since they’re both on their way to prison, but yes.”

John smiled, pleased with himself. 

Sherlock gave in and smiled back before turning away. “It’s really rather pedestrian,” he complained carelessly, staring out the window. “Sally had already figured much of it out from questioning the rest of the murderers a bit harder, which of course she didn’t deign to share with us. I should have left her to it from the start as I’d intended.”

“Sure,” John agreed, “you could have. But then Sally wouldn’t owe us a favor and would likely have been killed. And of course we wouldn’t be back in the Met’s good books again.”

“Such as we are,” Sherlock allowed, frowning. “It won’t last.”

“Hm.” John closed his eyes and Sherlock distractedly drew his fingers down over his scalp. “But it’s nice while it’s happening. And Sally brought us food since she knows you don’t cook.”

“Sally brought us take-away because she doesn’t cook either.”

“Sally has a busy job. She does other things well. You, on the other hand, have all the skills of a chemist and are too busy sulking in your dressing gown to sink to using them on something I actually need.” John relaxed into Sherlock’s fingers, humming, content. “Mm. Love you.”

Sherlock paused. “…Love you,” he managed quietly. John grinned, and Sherlock frowned. “Yes, yes, no need to get soppy about it, I’ve said it before.”

“S’different saying it to me, though, and not in the heat of the moment, isn’t it?” john asked, still grinning. “Harder.”

“Hm.” Sherlock looked away again. “Go to sleep.”

“Yes, sir,” John said, amused, and did.

***

“This is ridiculous.”

“Shut it, or you’re going outside.”

Sherlock sneered and stretched out across the uncomfortable plastic chair of the clinic exam room, clearly bored out of his mind and not caring if anyone knew. “You’re a doctor. You have vastly more experience than this woman. You do not need her to check your arm and stick on a plaster for you.”

“Sherlock Holmes.” John fixed him with a _look_ and Sherlock stilled, listening but moping. “I am not going to diagnose a gunshot wound on my own shoulder, especially not while _high on painkillers_. I only let you in here because you said you would be nice—you can be a berk as much as you like, but you can do it away from people giving me medical treatment.”

Sherlock looked offended. “I am being nice. I haven’t deduced your doctor, lied, stolen supplies, experimented with any of the materials in this room, set anything aflame, or anything else from the list you dramatically dictated this morning.”

John raised his eyebrows and stuck out his jaw. “Good. Now add ‘shut it’ to that list and keep following it.”

Sherlock glowered but shut it.

John’s doctor raised her own eyebrows. “Do you two need me to give you a moment? I can come back. I do have other patients.”

Sherlock gave his most disgusted, patronizing sigh and slumped sideways in his chair. 

“No, no, it’s fine. Can I finally get rid of the sling?” John tried to give her his most responsible, I-swear-I-won’t-make-poor-choices smile. “I’ve been stuck in it for _weeks_. I won’t strain anything, I swear.”

“If I’m not allowed to lie, you aren’t either,” Sherlock complained. “You’ll be climbing through windows the second you get that off.”

“Only because you’ll bully me into it—“

“I thought we were ‘all responsible for our own actions’, John—“

“I’ll let you drop the sling,” the doctor interrupted sternly, “if you absolutely promise to stop whatever you are doing with it the second it hurts.”

“Yes,” John promised. “I swear. Absolutely.”

“Deceitful _fabricator_ ,” Sherlock hissed.

The doctor stood and glared at John. “And that means the second I would say it hurts, not when you would say it hurts. It is not strong or manly to push through the pain, it is stupid, and you will botch our work on an amazingly clean and simple to fix wound if you do. You could ruin your shoulder when it’s looking like you will actually make it through getting shot without any loss of strength or mobility at all. Do you think that sounds like a good idea?”

“No ma’am,” John replied, cowed. 

“Then be smart. When something hurts, stop doing it.” She straightened up and turned to glare at Sherlock. “And you had better keep him from doing it, too.”

Sherlock snorted. “Please. It’s hardly a medical certainty that he will do more than set back the healing—it’s only a possibility. Scare tactics won’t work on me.”

The doctor crossed her arms. “A very strong possibility. Is the window in question worth the high risk of damaging your partner irreparably if he happens to be unlucky?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. “No.”

“Then maybe you had better listen to me and keep him from being an idiot.” She stripped off her gloves. “If you haven’t any more concerns, you can go.”

Sherlock looked her up and down. “This is not your regular patient demeanor, doctor. Someone prepared you for us.”

She gave him a look. “I’m friends with Sally Donovan; she called before you came in today. Go home and don’t do anything stupid.”

Sherlock huffed and stood, wrapping himself in his coat and striding off. John followed, giving a weak wave. 

“I mean it!” she called after them as they fled. 

“Well,” John grinned as Sherlock flagged down a taxi outside. “That’s me told.”

“You should probably be careful talking as much as you do—don’t want to strain anything,” Sherlock told him, sliding in, and John laughed and followed.

They rode in silence for a while, John fascinatedly flexing his arm in every direction, but eventually he almost caught Sherlock across the face and got an affronted look in return.

“Look, though, I can extend my elbow as much and as long as I like,” he explained, undeterred. “It’s fantastic. I can lift my arm all the—ow, ow, okay, I can’t lift my arm that way. But I can _make tea_.”

Sherlock let slip a smile. “You have an unhealthy obsession with tea and jumpers, really, John.”

“I have never beaten a corpse with a riding crop,” John pointed out starchily. “I think my enthusiasms are remarkably tame and healthy, thank you very much.”

“I didn’t beat it for _enjoyment_ ,” Sherlock told him. “I beat it for _science_.”

There was a short pause.

“Oh for god’s sake,” Sherlock muttered, but couldn’t keep his face entirely straight, and John started giggling uncontrollably. “Yes, yes, hilarious, I’m appalled that I live with you.”

“I’ll help you beat it for science,” John promised gleefully.

“Don’t want to strain your arm,” Sherlock reminded him, trying to glare, leaning forward to pay the cabbie as they came to a stop. “Your doctor will call Sally, and they’ll both come carp at us.”

They climbed out, and the taxi pulled away. John stuck his fists in his jacket pockets, pleased he could finally do it. “Don’t worry,” he guaranteed, “I only need one hand to work your—“

“ _Crude,_ ” Sherlock accused, stalking ahead to open the door.

“You’re going first so I can’t see you smiling,” John told him as he headed up the stairs behind him. “Don’t think I don’t know. You think it’s funny and you don’t want to admit it.” He shut the door to the flat behind him, still snickering.

“No,” Sherlock corrected, turning on him and pressing his good shoulder (soon to resume being his bad shoulder, hopefully) back until he hit the doorknob. The snickers died in John’s throat. “I went up first so I could pin you against the door, strip off all your clothes without catching on your damn sling, and grind up against you until you shout my name.” 

“Oh, god, yes,” John gasped, cock immediately taking notice, and raised his arms to grip Sherlock’s jacket.

“Don't strain your shoulder.” Sherlock pressed John’s his arm back down and gave him a feral smirk. “The moment I see you so much as tense it, I’m stopping.”

“What? No,” John protested, eyes wide. “That is not fair.”

“Doctor’s orders,” Sherlock reminded him, pulling at John’s jeans until the fly came open. He slid his hand inside, and John arched against his grip. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint anyone giving you _medical assistance_.”

John groaned, trying to keep his arm relaxed. It wasn’t easy. “I can’t decide at times like these,” he panted, gripping tight with the other hand, “whether you’re a cruel blessing or a perfect curse. But _Christ_ , I love you either way.”

“Probably a bit of both,” Sherlock replied pleasantly, and took him apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, I cut off the sex scene! It just didn't fit, here. TO MAKE UP FOR THE LACK OF SEX, I'm totally writing a sexytimes one-shot in this universe later on. Problem: I have no idea when. Your best bet is to subscribe to me and then you will know when I post it. (I swear this isn't just me trolling for followers, you could subscribe to just the series, too, I think). You can also look at my tumblr, I'll put up a note there, too (aggressivewhenstartled.tumblr.com).
> 
> Thank you all again! And again, please let me know if I made any mistakes in this (or any) chapter, it's only been partially beta'd because I rushed it through!


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